


House of Heretics

by Slumber



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-30
Updated: 2011-09-30
Packaged: 2017-10-24 04:54:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 37,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/259236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slumber/pseuds/Slumber
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seven years have passed since Voldemort's defeat and Draco Malfoy is making do with the lot he's been given--distrusted by the most of the ministry, shunned by the House that he betrayed. When a ministry official goes missing, Draco is given the chance to help restore the Malfoys' place in society. But is Astoria standing in his way or is she just what he needs to be exonerated?</p>
            </blockquote>





	House of Heretics

**Author's Note:**

> For Slytherins, the loves of my life. Narcissa probably wouldn't be here if not for Helen McCrory's performance in Deathly Hallows. The characters are JKR's, but Foxglove Bakery is Caroline's. Many thanks to the wonderful Acidpop25, who kept an eye out for flow and phrasing, and GrrArrg0908, who battled my italics valiantly and came out triumphant. Any mistakes are due to my post-beta meddling. Hope you enjoy reading!

_  
**i. he left us quite downhearted**   
_

 

"This had better be good, Potter."

The face at the other end of the fire-call craned its disembodied head to look behind Draco's shoulder. "I didn't interrupt anything, did I?"

"I was in the middle of an experiment," Draco groused. An assortment of vials and test tubes currently littered his desk, in the midst of which a blue-green mixture condensed into a small bowl. He'd been watching it as it shifted colors over the last few hours, tracking its progress in a journal that he kept for just that purpose.

He was also well past his fifth glass of whiskey, but he didn't need to tell the head of Magical Law Enforcement everything.

"You and your hobbies," Harry chuckled. "Why can't you just collect Chocolate Frogs? I hear they're popular again."

"Why would I want to pay perfectly good money so I can look at your ugly mug all day? That already happens far too often."

"I wish it wouldn't either, Malfoy, but here we are anyway. I have a case for you."

Draco raised an eyebrow. "Obviously, or you wouldn't be calling. What is it, dark artifact theft? Misuse? Muggle abuse? A third dark lord rising? Merlin knows we're due for another one of those."

"Not quite, no. Missing person."

"Anybody I know?"

"Does the name Cormac McLaggen ring a bell?"

"The Deputy Head of International Magical Cooperation is _missing_?" Draco asked, his voice rising by about an octave before he could stop himself. Even among the politically disinclined it was thought that, given a few more years, McLaggen would one day become the Minister of Magic. "Why didn't you say so in the first place?"

"This is a delicate matter," Harry said, though his face twisted into the usual sour look it wore whenever he had to do something unpleasant, like petting Blast-Ended Skrewts, talking to Rita Skeeter, or filling out paperwork. "Shacklebolt wants us both to proceed with discretion."

"What happened?"

"His wife called us in. She found blood on the floor of his study and he was nowhere to be found. How soon can you get here?"

Draco glanced at his lab. The mixture wouldn't be ready for another three hours, and if it blew up, then it blew up. It wouldn't be the first time he'd blame Harry for it. "I'll be there in fifteen."

"I need you here in five."

" _Ten_."

"Fine."

"Anything else I need to know?"

Harry's face prickled, though that could very well just have been the embers' dying sparks in the fireplace. "He disappeared in the middle of his birthday party."

Draco paused. "How many guests did they have?"

"About a hundred."

"So we have a hundred suspects."

"Yep."

"And potentially a hundred witnesses."

"Uh huh."

"And exactly how does Shacklebolt expect us to be discreet?"

"I don't have a fucking clue."

* * *

In all his years at Hogwarts, Draco had never thought he'd one day be working alongside Harry Potter. Some days it still caught him by surprise.

It started after his seventh year, when everything had fallen into complete disarray and the Ministry scrambled to return to order. Shacklebolt had hired every member of Dumbledore's Army and put them through expedited Auror training, after which the hunt for the last of the Death Eaters began in earnest. Sympathizers were questioned but the Ministry found itself constrained by its own bureaucratic snares. Trials could not be set and arrests could not be made unless there existed some irrefutable proof of Death Eating.

That's where the Malfoys proved useful. They had to go through trial themselves, and though in their case there was little doubt they were guilty, their betrayal of the Dark Lord afforded them some leniency. By then, it hardly mattered to anyone else what happened to them: Lucius was a hair's breadth away from madness, and Narcissa was a shell of her proud self.

Draco negotiated a lesser sentence for his parents in exchange for his cooperation, and at the first trial where it seemed his testimony would not suffice, it was he and Harry who broke into the Baddocks' manor and found the evidence they needed to lock Maxwell Baddock up for twenty years--Draco had known, from firsthand experience, what to look for and where, and Harry had provided the Ministry backing, however implicit.

By the third case, his parents were released from Azkaban. By the fifth, he was, himself, a free man. By the sixth, he became special consultant to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

And now here he was eleven cases later, trudging towards the outskirts of a town east of London in the dead of the night--all because Harry Potter asked.

The McLaggen estate, like many residences of the wealthy pureblooded, was nestled in a vast expanse of the country, Unplottable and protected by numerous ancient wards. But that didn't guarantee absolute safety, not when most families opened their doors for any conceivable reason they could concoct to host a social gathering.

It seemed the McLaggens had played hosts to a well-attended affair. Out on the manicured lawn, a cluster of wizards and witches in evening robes whispered and gossiped amongst themselves. The incident had given them a topic of conversation above the mundane talk that pervaded these evenings, which was just as well considering members of the Magical Law Enforcement squad were stationed around the perimeter of the estate. Draco assumed it was to prevent guests from leaving before their statements could be taken, and he was mostly right.

"Oi! You! What do you think you're doing?" one of them asked.

Draco scowled. "What do you think I'm doing?"

"Returning to the scene of the crime?" another suggested, and both squad members laughed at the joke.

"Do we need the Head Auror to get out here because you two imbeciles won't let me in?" Draco snapped. "I haven't got all night."

"Don't get your knickers in a twist," came the reply, and in a few moments the wards eased to let Draco through. There were a few other choice insults muttered, but Draco didn't even bother to bristle. Getting the entire MLE to like him was not part of his job. He strode past the guests, most of whom parted to give way save for one.

"Little late to the party, aren't we, Malfoy?" Blaise Zabini asked, his lip curling into that one-sided, self-assured smirk that, for the better part of seven years, Draco had wanted to punch. "The main course was served a full two hours ago."

"Evening to you too, Zabini."

"Send my love to Potter for me, why don't you? That is, if you can remove your lips from his arse long enough to--"

"Blaise, don't be crude," Pansy scolded. She turned towards Draco and offered him a stiff smile. "Hello, Draco."

"Pansy." Of all the ties he'd cut, Pansy's was one of the two he most regretted severing. He'd not spoken to her since seventh year, but what could he say to absolve himself? He'd testified against his own Housemates during the trials. Even among the Slytherins there existed a line, if not between right and wrong, then at least between what can and cannot be done.

"Why not? The man's a filthy traitor," Blaise said. "He ratted everyone out before flinging himself to hide beneath the Ministry's sanctimonious skirts. Just because you were once infatuated with him--"

"That's _enough_ , Blaise." Pansy narrowed her eyes, snapping before Draco could cut him off himself.

"Pansy?"

Everyone turned at the sound of the voice. Pansy's face broke into a sweet smile when she saw who it was. "Viktor, darling."

"I don't see you until now. Bagman talks and talks and talks. I try to find excuse to leave, say my wife is looking for me, but--"

"It's fine," she said, linking her arm with his. "I couldn't find you either."

"How long do we stay here?"

"We haven't been told anything since they asked us to go outside," Pansy told him. She nodded at Draco. "He might know."

Draco shook his head. "You might have to wait some more. I still need to find Potter."

"He is inside, I think," Viktor said.

"Thank you," Draco told him, avoiding eye contact with anyone else as he headed toward the manor.

* * *

"You're late," Harry said. He stood up from his seat and signaled for Draco to follow him to the stairs.

"It was a long walk. Did you know Sharp and Diggle are wasting taxpayer galleons milling around with the guests outside?"

"I asked them to do that. I've got Peakes and Quinnville taking statements."

"Prior Incantato?"

Harry glared at him. "I know protocol, Malfoy. This isn't my first crime scene."

"I still say this would be easier if the Wizengamot just let us use Dumbledore's Pensieve."

Harry snorted. "You would think. It's been in the MLE custody for years and they still have those bloody Unspeakables performing tests to confirm it can't be tainted. Hermione drafted a process checklist within two days and she reckons it'll be another two years before we'd actually be allowed to use Pensieve statements in court."

It was in Draco's esteemed opinion that confirming the accuracy of information was secondary to acquiring it as soon as crimes were discovered, but the Wizengamot was a notoriously suspicious lot. It didn't matter that the Pensieve was an invention of one of their own--they didn't trust that it couldn't be tampered with--and it certainly didn't matter either that their own system was flawed. It wouldn't be as much of a problem (the MLE could still use the Pensieve to guide investigations even if they couldn't use it as proof) if not for the fact that explicit permission had to be given to obtain memories. That was one thing he had yet to find a way to... creatively acquire. "Bully for us," he said, following Harry up the stairs. "Where are we headed?"

"McLaggen's study."

"Is Mrs. McLaggen up there too?"

"She's tending to the guests; I've got Williams with her."

"Got it." Draco was interested in getting her testimony, but he didn't need it until after he'd seen the scene. "So tell me the timeline."

"The party started at seven. About three hours in, his wife noticed he was missing so she went upstairs to find him. Found the study a mess, didn't see where he was. She called us right after, she said."

"Were the guests aware of what happened?"

"Some, but no one knows the entire story."

"Neither do we," Draco said. "And how does she know it's an abduction?"

Harry gave him a look. "Tell me what you think," he said before flinging the door wide open.

The study was trashed. Books littered the floor, the desk--its drawers ajar--lay on its side, an ugly rug bunched up near the fireplace, and the chair was split in two. There were pieces of broken glass by the window and blood spattered on the carpeted floor. "That's quite the struggle for one man. Whoever it was must have had to overpower him."

"We're thinking the wizard probably used his hands more than his wand. You don't see too much spell damage around."

"Anyone know how long McLaggen had been gone from the party?"

"We have conflicting reports from the guests. Some thought they saw him leave an hour ago, others swore they saw him just minutes before. Mrs. McLaggen herself couldn't remember the last time she saw him."

"That's helpful. What's McLaggen doing up here with a glass of scotch?" Draco asked, taking care not to step on anything as he made his way to a corner of the room. He Levitated an empty glass whose amber contents were staining the floor, examining it for a moment before he set it back, his gaze caught by a similar stain a few feet away. The glass that held the alcohol had been crushed into pieces that, at first glance, seemed to belong to the window, but its shards were finer, thinner. He knelt down and sniffed the air around the stain, catching a whiff of wine. "He had someone else with him as well. Smells like champagne."

"That narrows it down, doesn't it?" Harry scoffed.

Draco nodded toward the window. "It doesn't explain why that's been broken. If the abductor had been inside, why not just open the window to take McLaggen out?"

"The windows were warded shut," Harry said. "I'm assuming, since we're a floor up, that whoever took him Summoned a broom to escape."

"Anybody's wand register Accio?"

"Six guests did. Roberts is confirming their alibis downstairs."

"And Mrs. McLaggen?"

Harry shook his head. "Glacialum. Her drink needed ice. You think she might have something to do with it?"

"She's the last one who could have seen him and whoever took him," Draco said. "First witness, first suspect, right?"

"She's also the wife of a public figure and if it turns out that she's innocent, we're going to get slammed for treating her like a criminal. You can't use your usual tactics with her, Malfoy."

"My usual tactics?"

"Play _nice_."

"I always play nice." Draco eyed McLaggen's overturned desk. "Those drawers--do you know what's in them?"

"Just paperwork, odds and ends, she said. He kept his most important documents in a Gringotts vault."

"Office supplies," he muttered, noting a few seals, letters, and envelopes. His hand skimmed over its contents, closing over a gold coin and moving to the next drawer before Harry noticed how long he lingered there. He picked up a few envelopes and waved them in the air. "You think he had any political enemies?"

"You think he'd write to people who hated his guts?"

"He's in politics. Of course he does," Draco said, slipping the envelopes inside his breast pocket.

"Be my guest," Harry said with a shrug, though Draco was certain that detail wouldn't escape Harry's attention later as he filed his report.

Draco cocked his head toward the blood spatter on the floor. It was partially hidden under the rug, which he toed out of the way. "Oh. That's a lot more than I thought it would be. We're sure it's McLaggen's?"

"We're sending samples to our potions lab for further analysis, but I'd say yeah, we're sure it's his."

"Your men have searched the grounds for his body?"

"Every last inch."

"And nothing?"

Harry scowled. "Nothing. We can't do much with only conjecture at this point."

Draco gave the entire room another look. "Alright, Potter. Let's talk with Mrs. McLaggen."

* * *

They found Astoria McLaggen in the kitchen, directing house elves to create more hors d'oeuvres for the guests and trying to shoo Tracey Davis outside. Tracey had put on an apron and was attempting to mix some batter together, insistent on staying to help.

"You're a guest, Tracey," she was saying, thrusting a glass of iced drink at her just before Harry cleared his throat and knocked on the open door.

"Mrs. McLaggen?"

She turned to look, and Draco realized exactly why the name rang a bell. "You're Daphne's little sister."

It wasn't the stark drama that was Pansy's severe black bob and pale skin, or the ethereality of Tracey's gentle blonde curls and bright blue eyes, but the Greengrasses were nonetheless striking in their own ways. Daphne smiled like she knew your secret, prone to bursts of laughter and fits of impish mischief. Astoria had the same dark brown hair, the same heart-shaped face that framed delicate features, and she even quirked her lips in the same manner that Daphne would have.

"Well spotted, Mr. Malfoy. I can see now why the Ministry pays so handsomely for your services."

The difference, it seemed, was in the delivery. Where Daphne's sharper features gave way to lighthearted, malice-free banter, there was a layer of subtle mockery that hid beneath Astoria's more cherubic face.

"I was wondering if I could talk with you for a moment," Draco said, ignoring the jibe and giving Harry a pointed look. Whoever said he couldn't be nice if he wanted to be?

"Now?" Astoria asked. She chewed on the bottom of her lip, wiping her hand on a small towel as she glanced at the chaos of her kitchen.

"It won't take very long, Mrs. McLaggen," Harry said.

"I'll take care of things here," Tracey assured her, retying her apron around what looked like an expensive powder blue gown.

Astoria sighed. "All right," she said. She grabbed her glass of red and drank the last of it in two quick gulps--impressive considering the amount left. She motioned for Draco to follow. "Let's head somewhere quiet, shall we?"

"See you in a while," Harry told him, lips quirking as Draco passed him by.

"Don't think I don't know what you're thinking," Astoria said as soon as they entered a small drawing room near the kitchen. She walked toward one of the chairs and sat herself down, legs primly crossed, hands folded on her lap. She nodded at the couch in front of her. "Please, take a seat."

"What am I thinking?" Draco asked.

"Auror Potter's been nothing but gracious, and so have his men, but I know you suspect one person and that's why you're talking to her right now, is it not?"

"We have to start somewhere, don't we?"

"How about trying to find him first? How many men were sent to look for him compared to the men who stayed to inconvenience our guests?"

"Potter knows what he's doing. They're looking for your husband, but as soon as whoever took him got past the wards they could have Apparated anywhere. The MLE are combing the perimeter of your estate as we speak--" Draco hoped they were, at least-- "and will let us know as soon as they find anything. For now, it's a better use of everyone's time to find out who might have anything to gain from his disappearance."

Astoria pursed her lips in response. "Fine," she said. "We'll do it your way, then."

"What do you know of your husband's enemies?"

"Many wizards are jealous of his position, I imagine."

"You imagine?"

Even the way she shrugged was refined. "I don't know much about politics. I care even less about his."

"You don't think it wise to concern yourself with your husband's activities?"

"Wouldn't that then make me complicit?"

Draco raised an eyebrow. "Are you implying something with that statement?"

She smiled: a beatific, close-mouthed smirk that caught Draco by surprise. "Hardly. But my mother always cautioned me against knowing too much. She said it wasn't a lady's place to know."

Draco shifted in his seat, closer to the edge so he could sit straighter. "Be that as it may," he said, "we have reason to believe that whoever took him may have come in as a guest."

Astoria frowned. "How? Everyone's still here."

"If you have a guest list, we'd like to confirm that," Draco said. "And it's possible they may have found a way to return without being noticed--we don't know how long your husband had been missing before you saw his study, after all."

"You realize we invited over a hundred guests?"

"I do. This is why any information you may have could come in handy."

"And if I don't have any?"

"You're his wife," Draco said. It was his turn to smile. "If you don't know anything, you at least have access to something that might."

* * *

"Tomorrow? Why couldn't you speak with her today?"

Draco wasn't sure if it was part and parcel of talking with Harry over fire-call, but it seemed anytime the man received bad news his face bristled and hissed with the burning coals of the flames. "She's got obligations today, Potter, and as it happens, so do I."

Harry blinked, uncomprehending.

"It's _Saturday_ ," Draco enunciated. "Go home."

Harry opened his mouth to protest, but he always had something to protest. Snuffing out the flames ended the conversation more efficiently, so that's what Draco did. He dusted the soot and sand off his robes, but they smudged regardless.

He was heading to his room for a change of robes when he heard the familiar thud of someone coming through the Floo. He hurried for the door, intent on closing it behind him before--

"Draco?"

Damn it.

"Draco, darling, I'm only a minute early. Where are you?"

Draco sighed. "Upstairs, mother."

"Whatever for?" came Narcissa's question. "We were supposed to have tea and you haven't started brewing anything yet. I've got something to tell you; hurry down, will you?"

"Just a minute, I've--" from the kitchen came the sound of clattering cups and the creaking of cupboard doors. Too late. He closed his door and descended the stairs. "Mother, I can--"

"It's no bother, love," Narcissa told him, coming out of the kitchen to meet him in the foyer. Her smile was warm, as it always was for him, silver-graying hair tied in a neat bun. Soft lines, usually charmed to fade, drew the passage of years on her pale face. "You should have told me you needed help. We'd have gotten you a house elf."

"It's fine," Draco said, stemming the bitter pang that rose in his throat. There would be no elf--most elves came with the centuries-old houses that only the oldest wizarding families owned, and the Malfoys had lost theirs long ago--but it was a nice thought to have, and she seemed to find comfort in saying those words, however empty. "I don't need an elf."

"What happened to your robes?"

"Just some soot, Mother, it's--"

She was already fussing, waving her wand to clean the sooty residue with a murmured Tergeo. "There," she said, pleased with her work. "You don't go to work looking like that, do you?"

"No, Mum," Draco said with a sigh. It was hard to feign formality when his mother insisted on acting like a _hen_. "I wash my clothes."

"Good, can't have a law enforcement consultant dressed in rags," she said. "I heard you were at the McLaggens' last night?"

Draco blinked. "How did you even--"

"It was only on The Prophet's second page," his mother told him. " _'The MLE, immediately at a loss, have already requested the expertise of Draco Malfoy'_ \--"

" _That_ is not what The Prophet said," Draco said with a snort. While Rita Skeeter may have favored those she could use for information, she'd been bumped down to handling the society pages and Zacharias Smith now covered most of the MLE beat. He was just as nosy as his predecessor, but with all the bluntness of a badger and the bristles of a hedgehog. Draco had no doubt Smith had already gotten wind of the investigation, but he didn't believe for one moment that Smith would have called him an expert in anything.

"The facts don't change. I owled Miranda McLaggen this morning. The poor woman is absolutely beside herself with grief! Did you know," she said, ignoring the look Draco gave her--it wasn't like his mother to be so bold as to reach out to women who hadn't spoken to her since Lucius was last arrested. "Miranda owled me back not two hours later, asking if I'd heard anything yet."

"Is that what you wished to discuss today, then?"

"Oh, no, of course not. Your work is yours, but I told her not to worry. My son is on the case." She beamed then, proud as the peacocks that used to wander the manor grounds.

Draco only nodded, loathe to promise anything that might be taken as a guarantee. There were few things that the Malfoys had in excess these days. Pride was one of them, even if it no longer came with the esteem that most others had given the family. He chose to busy himself instead with preparing tea, now that the kettle whistled its signal, pouring his mother first a cup of strong Earl Grey before he stirred some milk and sugar into his English Breakfast. It was the closest he'd come to coffee, whose smell Narcissa found revolting.

"Your father, though," she started to say once they had settled in their seats--skinny chairs with slim cushions that scarcely separated bottoms from hard surfaces.

Draco cringed despite himself. "What about father?"

"He only wants to see how you're doing," she said.

"Oh?"

Narcissa sighed. "He's curious, as well, about what the Ministry plans to do in Cormac's absence," she admitted. "He says word is that Cormac had been running most of International Magical Cooperation."

Draco shook his head. Where his mother at least attempted to mask her ambitions with delicate correspondences, Lucius was all but deranged in his delusions. "Its head is running the department, Mother. Cyrus Walden is perfectly capable, and if they find him otherwise, please do tell your husband that Malfoy Manor is the last place they'd look for a replacement."

Narcissa set her cup down on its saucer, the porcelain clinking louder than normal. "That was not at all what he was saying," she said. "Your father is concerned, that's all."

"Of course he's concerned," Draco said. He didn't want to argue with his mother, even though he disagreed with her then. Lucius Malfoy had never held a position in public office, yet now that most private company boards have either politely declined to renew his term or strong-armed him out altogether, he spent his days misguidedly plotting out his rise to power.

"I shall tell him the department is not looking, then," Narcissa said. "The investigation. It's going well?"

"As well as a day-old case can go," Draco told her. "I'm to meet with the wife after she brunches with her family tomorrow."

"That reminds me--I should send an owl to Helene as well, I think," she murmured, almost to herself. "We haven't caught up with each other in ages. Was she close with her son-in-law, do you know?"

Draco gave a helpless shrug.

"Didn't one of her daughters go to school with you? Daphne, wasn't it? You used to be such good friends."

That was a bit of a stretch. He remembered speaking to her just three times at Hogwarts--the first time was to ask where she got the bag of sweets she'd been carrying around all day and sneaking handfuls of when the professors weren't looking; the second time, he'd tried to coax her into snogging him so Pansy would get jealous after the Yule Ball; the last time, it wasn't even her. (He'd tapped her shoulder to tell her something, he didn't even remember what it was now, but it was Astoria who turned around to ask him what he wanted.) Daphne was friends with Pansy and Tracey, and Draco had been friends with both girls--with Pansy because she liked him, and with Tracey because the only way to remain in Theodore's good graces was to be in hers--so he supposed that counted. "I haven't seen her in a while."

"You ought to catch up," Narcissa suggested. The smile that came with her words was small and wistful, but it made Draco uncomfortable enough to busy himself with brewing another pot of tea. He didn't care that his father dreamt of power--Lucius was easy enough to ignore--but Narcissa only wanted things to be as they were.

"I will," he lied, because truth be told, so did he.

* * *

Astoria still hadn't returned from brunch when Draco arrived at the estate after noon the next day. She left her house elf with instructions to let Draco in, but Draco refused the elf's offer to bring him anything to drink, choosing instead to sit himself at the desk, where a lone leather journal lay.

Was that the entirety of her so-called information? Draco wrinkled his nose, but, resigned to start somewhere, opened the journal to the first page.

There was a loud cracking sound, a sudden gust of angry wind, and in the next second, his back hit the wall with a resounding thud.

" _Fuck_ ," he groaned, crumpling onto the ground. He should have known, should have seen that coming. Of _course_ McLaggen's journal would be warded.

Bloody hell.

He picked himself up, ignoring the sharp throbbing in his side from where he had collided against an edge in the wall, and limped back toward the desk. The journal was shut tight, glowing a menacing red. Draco swore, running his hand through his hair. He didn't have time for this, although he supposed it was enough to let him know he may just be on the right track after all.

The ward McLaggen had placed on his journal wasn't uncommon--Draco had encountered it a few times in the past, and it wasn't too complicated that it would be impossible to break. It _did_ require some time, as Draco was certain the journal would need a few minutes to calm down. The leather cover bristled with volatile magic as Draco neared it, and he wondered if it could sense him from two feet away.

"Nasty bugger," he muttered under his breath, remembering a moment in third year when that ridiculous half-giant thought to assign his students a book that was intent on devouring its owner. He'd nearly had his hand bitten off. He stayed a fair distance away, noticing now the runes that lined the journal's spine.

Draco Summoned a blank piece of parchment and his self-inking quill from the desk. Careful not to step any closer, he squinted to make out the characters and wrote an approximation of them down. Some runic sequences were so powerful that the simple act of writing them served as incantation enough. He glanced at what he'd written, wishing he hadn't been so rubbish at Ancient Runes.

"Pinky?" he called out, hoping the elf was somewhere within hearing distance.

"Would you like tea now, Mister Malfoy?" Pinky asked, though when she popped in she already had a tray of tea to offer.

"No, thank you. I was wondering if you knew whether or not your mistress keeps a runes textbook around the house?"

"Of course, Mister Malfoy," Pinky said, disappearing before Draco could tell her more and returning not five seconds later, her tiny spindly arms wobbling with the weight of six thick books. "Can Pinky bring Mister Malfoy anything else?"

"These should be fine, thank you," Draco said. He took the stack from Pinky and sat on a leather armchair at the other end of the room, intending to brush up on basic runic theory to get a better idea on how to disarm McLaggen's journal.

It wasn't until Astoria knocked on the door and he looked up for the first time that he realized he'd been stuck in the position for too long. There was a crick in his neck that had been building from being hunched over so much, and he took the opportunity to stretch a little to ease the discomfort.

Astoria walked in with a pot of coffee and biscuits, setting them down on what little space was available. "Pinky says you haven't had anything since you arrived. I'd be remiss in my duties as host if I didn't make sure you were at least fed."

Draco set down his quill, marking the new combination he'd been in the middle of translating. There were seven of them now, but he hadn't yet gathered the nerve to try any. "Is that coffee?"

"You didn't seem like the sort to have tea."

"What made you think that?"

"You're too _wired_ ," she admitted, and even Draco had to crack a smile.

"Guess I deserve that," he said, pouring himself a cup and taking a sip. "That's as sharp an observation as any that Potter's rookies have made."

"They've been keeping my counsel updated," Astoria said. "But so far, they've found nothing."

"They might have found something from the journal," Draco pointed out.

"They'd have the discretion of Skeeter on a Babbling Potion. I'd rather have this kind of material handled appropriately," she declared. "I meant to ask--have you found anything so far?"

"I think so. Your husband didn't want anybody looking into this, which tells me we're probably on the right track. I've been trying to figure out the runic code needed to unlock it."

"I suspected he may have warded it."

"Little bit of warning would have been nice."

"I didn't think it was something you couldn't handle."

Draco caught the smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. "I can handle it," he said, taking one of the combinations he'd drawn up and scratching it out in a circular pattern on a piece of parchment. The runes glowed for a moment. Draco picked up the journal and eyed it with some trepidation.

"Scared, Malfoy?"

"Of course not," he denied, knowing full well she was goading him but feeling quite goaded regardless. He placed the journal right in the middle of the runic circle.

The runes glowed green; the journal started to tremble.

"Is it working?" Astoria wanted to know.

"I think--shite, no. _Duck_!"

There was another loud blast, the sound of furniture hitting the wall. When Draco's head emerged from the ground he couldn't help wincing at the damage that the explosion had caused.

"Are you planning to blow up the entire _estate_?" Astoria hissed from where she was sprawled on the ground. Her skirt had gathered well above her knee; Draco caught a glimpse before forcing his gaze away. "You could have had us both killed!"

"Calm down," he said, picking up the combination he'd used. "Now we know this isn't the right one."

"And how many more are you intending to try out?"

"Six?"

" _Six_?"

"Have you a better idea?" Draco gestured towards the journal. "This is the only lead we've got and it's warded shut, thanks."

Astoria stalked towards him. "Do you even _know_ what you're doing?" she asked, glancing at the runes he'd written down. "None of those look remotely correct!"

"It wasn't my best subject," he muttered.

"Where's the journal?" She sat herself at the desk, grabbing a roll of parchment and a quill. Her eyes narrowed when he handed her the still-thrashing journal, studying the wards and jotting a few characters down. "Here," she said, thrusting forward a slightly different combination of the same runes he'd been using. "Use this."

"Are you sure?"

She glared at him. "It's that or one of the six you think _may_ be right."

She made a fair point. Draco nodded, taking the parchment and setting it down. "You'll want to step back for this," he warned her. "Just in case."

"Way ahead of you there," she said, and he looked up just in time to see her disappear around the door.

"Coward!" he called out after her.

"I happen to like this dress!" She peeked out from behind the frame. "Go on, now. Why don't you try it?"

Draco rolled his eyes, picking up the journal and making a show of inching closer to the desk. "On three," he said. "One..."

"Two--"

Draco put it down at two, resisting the urge to flee right after. The journal shuddered, its fiery halo swallowed by the white glow of Astoria's runes at work, but after a beat, then two, then three, it was clear that was all the journal planned to do. Draco let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

"Did it work?" Astoria asked.

"Yeah." Satisfied, Draco reached out and turned the page. "All right, McLaggen. Let's see what you've been hiding."

* * *

Harry Potter, even with the greenish glow of the fireplace, never failed to wear the best look of utter confusion whenever the opportunity presented itself. It was a talent and a skill, and some days Draco toyed with the idea that it was what had offed the Dark Lord in the end. "I don't understand," Harry said, hair and glasses askew as his face scrunched up.

"It's simple enough, isn't it? The journal's full of gibberish." Draco leaned back against his seat, tapping the feather end of a quill against his cheek. "I'm working on deciphering it but it could take some time."

"How long?"

"I don't know, Potter!" Draco exclaimed. "I've got to crack the code first, haven't I?"

"You can send it to Mysteries--Hermione says Terry Boot's the best cryptographer they've got. He's bound to be able to help."

"I can handle it fine as it is, thanks."

"This isn't your case," Harry protested. "It's the entire department's--"

"Look, she asked that nobody else get involved unless they have to. Her husband's a prominent figure and she wants to be cautious about how everything is handled. I don't see why we should violate her trust while we've got it, do you?"

Harry glared.

"You're only doing that because you know I'm right."

"This isn't your case, Malfoy." Harry's voice held a tone of warning, but to Draco they'd long lost their meaning. Whatever involvement Harry desired for the MLE only got in Draco's way. "I'm serious. Shacklebolt wants McLaggen back."

"Don't we all? It'll be more embarrassing for your department if you lost your primary witness because you wanted to butt in. Tell Shacklebolt that, why don't you?"

Harry started to snarl something in return but before he could, Draco threw a bucket of sand over his face. With the flames snuffed and the call terminated, Draco gave in to the childish urge that he'd been fighting since Harry called to tell him off and stuck his tongue out at the empty fireplace.

"What a prick," he muttered under his breath. His usual potions lab was cleared out--there were no bubbling cauldrons or simmering infusions. His notes from the other day were scattered, a mess to anyone but Draco, who worked best with a structured kind of chaos. To the left, various entries which he'd copied by hand onto spare parchment. (Astoria had refused to let him leave the estate with the actual journal.) To the right, different texts on cryptography and ancient magical methods of decoding. In the middle, a list of possible ciphers he'd spent the night hashing out.

Draco had plenty of work ahead, but the day was young and he had everything he needed on parchment. If he was lucky, it would be enough to figure out what happened to McLaggen. Enough, he hoped, that he'd be able to find the man alive. His mother's social standing with the elder Mrs. McLaggen did depend on it, after all, he thought wryly. It wasn't every day Miranda McLaggen deigned to have tea with the wives of former Death Eaters.

As though on reflex, the muscles in his left forearm clenched, and he reached out to rub it. He couldn't see it through the sleeves of his robes but he could feel every line and curl that burned the Mark on his skin. It came with a sharp, stinging sensation, similar to the kind he experienced whenever he was called all those years ago, but it was a different brand of pain all the same.

Still rubbing his arm, Draco padded over to his kitchen, waving open the cupboard door above his sink and Levitating a series of multi-colored potions stoppered in small, fluted bottles. Each landed onto his counter with a tiny clink.

He Summoned a dropper from his potions cupboard and set it next to a bottle of acidic amber. He picked up a thick green potion and took a quick swig straight from the bottle, careful not to spit it out as a foul stench filled his mouth. There were many pain-killing potions in the market, but none that were as quickly effective as his own. Already he could feel it spreading through his veins, numbing his senses as it reached his nerves and muffled them, the effect of a special combination of crushed paracress leaves and root of rosemary. Still reeling from disgust, he began to roll up his left sleeve, careful to leave it tight around his upper arm to stem blood flow.

The Mark pulsed with an angry streak of black, thrashing against the reddened skin that surrounded it. Draco dabbed the area with alcohol, hissing as his skin burned anew. The snake that threaded through the skull looked all but ready to leap at him and wrap its coil around his neck if it could, but Draco ignored it.

Harry Potter had killed its master, and Draco was determined to destroy what was left of it.

The Mark had lost some of its color, rubbed clean from the first time Draco applied his new solution. It was never supposed to fade, his father told him. It stayed dormant and permanent, as most ancient kinds of magic did, which explained why it wanted to battle him now that he'd started attempting to erase it from his skin.

The amber potion was the closest he'd come in years of experimentation, and even then, he wasn't sure it wouldn't have adverse effects. At least this one did not burn his skin like the last one did--he'd lost sensation on the pad of his pinky after the first and only test he conducted for that potion.

He opened the bottle once his forearm turned bloodless pale. He dipped his dropper halfway down the bottle's mouth, fingers pinching its rubber top until he had 7 milliliters of the liquid. The snake hissed and writhed, coiling and uncoiling in and out and around the frozen skull.

"Stay the _fuck_ still!" Draco snapped, dropping a bead of amber liquid right onto its tail just before it slithered behind the skull's jaws.

It _hurt_.

He'd forgotten just how much. It stung and burned, cutting a thousand tiny lacerations on a concentrated area of the dying snake's tail. Draco bit his lip, held his arm down to keep himself from reaching for a salve--it wouldn't work anyway--and before he could dwell on the pain, he spilled the rest of the potion onto the Mark.

" _Fucking_ Salazar's godforsaken _balls_!" he groaned, Summoning a bottle of Firewhiskey from a different cupboard and gulping it down. It helped almost as much as his pain-killer did--that is, barely--but downing subsequent mouthfuls helped pass the excruciating ten minutes it took for the poison to do its deed.

This is how wizards should be cautioned against engaging in dark magic. Forget the moral high ground--the dark arts hurt like a fucker, and if Draco had known this is how he'd spend his morning, he'd have made different choices.

The first time he did this, he'd been rendered physically incapable of doing anything other than huddle in pain. He wasn't any more ready this time, hobbling over to his couch, collapsing upon it and curling into a fetal position there, swearing every few seconds when a new wave of pain hit.

The last thing he wanted at this point was company, but one came in the form of a horned owl that flew in from his chimney, dropping a sealed note and a small pouch onto his lap.

"Where the fuck did you come from?" Draco wondered, unable to recognize the seal on his package. The owl cocked its head at Draco, hooting inconsiderately. "There's a bowl of treats on the mantel. Shoo!"

The distraction kept his mind off the agony, at least for a tiny bit. Right hand still wrapped around his arm in a death vise, he used his left hand to attempt to break the seal on the note. When he found his fingers numbed and useless, he grabbed the pouch instead, using his teeth to undo the knot that bound it.

"What the hell is in here?" He turned the pouch upside down, and it spilled what looked like a single white pebble onto his open palm. He had just enough time to close his hand around it before the familiar, dizzying sensation of being hooked stomach-first through a whirlwind of color and whoosh of air took hold. " _Fuck._ "

* * *

Draco had traveled by Portkey before. He knew how to maintain his balance throughout the duration of the ride. He knew how to land. He could do it in his sleep if needed.

But he hadn't expected to get Portkeyed away and he hadn't been ready for any sort of movement, least of all the kind that twirled him around like a simple baton.

He groaned when he fell onto a hard surface, one side of his body crashing against wooden floor with a dull thud. The potion's effects hadn't abated, so on top of wanting to cut his arm off he now also had a throbbing headache and a stomach threatening to empty itself.

" _Merlin_ , are you all right?"

The voice was Astoria's, that much he could tell. Through a haze of swirling colors and white-hot pain, he became dimly aware of more movement--a hand light on his shoulder, rolling him onto his back. She hovered over him, brow creasing as she looked him over, eyes widening as she saw his arm.

Draco glared, rolling over to hide it from her view, his back now turned to her. "What's the big idea, anyway?" he growled, choosing to cover his embarrassment with well-placed indignance. "I could have used a bloody warning or two. Or three."

"That's what the note said! Didn't you read it?"

"I tried," he said. "Wasn't exactly the best time."

"What _is_ that?"

"Nothing," he snapped, though a scream wrangled its way out of his throat. " _Fuck_. Do you mind?"

"But what's going on?"

"Later," he bit out. "I'll tell--later. Just--just _go_."

"I won't go until--"

"I'll tell you _later_."

He heard nothing more from her save the rustle of clothing, the staccato click-clack of heels on the floor, and the bang of a door being shut. He closed his eyes, wondering how much time that had killed.

The snake on his arm bared its fangs at him when he glanced down to check, and Draco winced, the blood in his veins curdling anew.

* * *

When Astoria returned to the room ten minutes later, Draco had had enough time to find a comfortable armchair upon which he lounged, immersed in the pages of an ancient book with faded blue binding. He'd rolled his sleeves back down and even smoothed out his hair--a mess earlier, slick with sweat and flying Potter-like in every which direction.

"I brought coffee," Astoria announced. Draco hadn't looked up when she opened the door.

"This is a fascinating history of Merlin as a young lad," Draco said, and when Astoria caught his gaze he smirked at her. "I had no idea he had been trapped in the body of a rogue pirate captain, freed only by giving in to his carnal desires for Morgana's descendant, an exotic soothsayer lusted after by half the town. Have you ever read this?"

"Once or twice," she admitted, tone nonchalant if not for the faint blush in her cheeks. "Lucky for me no one else has. Cormac wouldn't touch a book if it didn't have pictures or a summary page written by his assistant."

"Once or twice in full, I take it?" Draco asked, setting the book down and letting it fall open to where the well-worn binding had been creased the most. " _Rosalind's breath hitched as Marcus' strong hands grasped her tiny waist--_ "

Astoria Levitated a cushion to smack him in the head. "Clever trick. Feel free to shut up now."

Draco snickered. There was a beat of silence. "I've read your note, by the way," he said, holding up a crumpled piece of parchment, at the same time Astoria asked, "What was that about?"

"I don't care about the note right now," she added, just as he responded with, "What was what about?"

"You know perfectly well," Astoria said, keen on not letting the matter drop. She gestured towards his arm. " _He_ isn't back, is he?"

Draco scoffed. "Of course not! No, he isn't back. I was just--" he sighed. "It's nothing."

She narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms, proof positive of how persuasive Draco had been. "You can't keep something like that to yourself. Does Potter know? He'll need to know if he's back."

"It's not a bloody call to arms!" Draco exclaimed, yanking his sleeve back up. "See?"

He'd seen the Mark a thousand times, _knew_ that it lived on his arm. It was embedded in the fabric of his nightmares, and even though he was well aware that everyone knew he was Marked, he still burned with shame at having to show it. She shrank back at the sight, and he didn't blame her. Though faded, it was still a stark battle of charcoal ink on red skin. The skull was an imposing cage, the snake its murderous prisoner.

"I've been trying to remove it," he explained. "Bit troublesome considering I have no idea what sort of magic was used to imprint it, but it's beginning to go away. I think."

"It looks like you'd sooner have your skin fall off."

"I looked into that too. Turns out we can't grow skin and put it onto flesh that's been burned off."

" _What?_ "

Draco laughed. "Ironic, isn't it? All the new potions and spells in the world, and we can't figure out how to get rid of a bloody tattoo."

"No, I meant--you would burn your own skin off?"

"Wouldn't you?"

"It seems a little excessive," she told him. The snake had caught sight of her now, slanting its beady eyes and flicking its tongue at her. It was more threatening than any tattoo had any right to be. "Does it--does it _bite_?"

"Does it bite?" Draco echoed. "What kind of question is that?"

"Valid, considering who made it!"

"No, it doesn't _bite_ ," Draco said, flicking at the snake, which leapt at his finger like a predator pouncing on prey. He wiggled his unharmed hand for Astoria. "See?"

"Yes, I suppose," Astoria murmured. She paused to consider what he'd just shown her, and then: "Can I?"

Draco raised an eyebrow. "Of course." Just as Astoria placed tentative fingers on the Mark--her touch remained light, as though she feared Draco's skin still burned from the potion--he added, "You can most certainly touch my snake."

Astoria snorted. "Are you twelve? Oh. Hmm. That's odd."

"Hm?"

"He's letting me pet him."

"What?"

Astoria didn't answer, watching the way the snake had coiled itself by the base of the skull. She stroked down the length of its body from the top of its head down, and it visibly eased, the end of its tail languid as it curled against a still-unblemished part of Draco's skin close to his wrist. Draco squirmed. The snake unfurled, and he felt a light tickle prickle the hairs on his arm. Whether it was the Mark or Astoria he could not say, and yet, he didn't quite want to move.

"I think your snake likes me," she said, biting her lower lip before she burst into laughter. "How's that for a double entendre?"

"Shut it," Draco muttered, swatting her hand away. The snake tensed up then and bared its fangs. "It's an evil bugger."

"Maybe Amos just doesn't like you."

" _Amos?_ You-Know-Who made this damned thing!"

"Yes, but you said he isn't back. I don't think he lives through his creations anymore. Could only do seven at a time, or whatever that theory was. Amos can't be that bad, if he's got the good grace to appreciate my attention," Astoria said. "You should try playing nice."

"I don't want to--cease that at once!" Draco snapped, jerking away from Astoria, who had tried to pet the snake again. He rolled his sleeve back down. "We're done looking, thank you. You said you had something?"

Astoria stuck out her bottom lip. "Yes," she said. "You told me you were having trouble deciphering the journal notes."

"Not my favorite discovery, I'll tell you that."

"I couldn't believe it when you showed me, actually." Astoria Summoned McLaggen's book from the desk and settled on the couch. Draco sat down beside her. She smelled faintly of some indeterminable summer bloom, a mix of something fresh and sweet. He fought the urge to breathe her in, careful to keep himself a professional distance away, and waited for her to open the journal. "Cormac had no faculty for language."

"Are you telling me this _is_ the incoherent ranting of an illiterate public official? Well then, our work here appears to be done."

Astoria dug her elbow in his rib. "Let me finish! When you found out he'd been writing in code, I thought it unlikely that he'd have the patience to remember the entire cipher by heart. If I know my husband well, and don't say anything about his activities because that's different from living with him for the last four years, then he must have had a way to make this easier somehow. Besides, he had a terrible memory. Ate one too many Doxy eggs in his youth or some rubbish like that."

She seemed to be getting somewhere substantial. "Go on."

"My first instinct was to look for a cipher. I had Pinky turn Cormac's study inside out, but I couldn't find anything."

"Maybe he put it in his vault."

"Then he wouldn't have been able to decode it at his leisure."

"He could have hid it really well, then."

"I'm his wife, Draco. I know most of his tricks," Astoria said. "But even this, I admit, was rather sneaky of him."

"You've decoded it?"

Instead of answering, Astoria tapped the page with the tip of her wand. " _Lacuna Revelio_ ," she murmured, and the ink faded out, replaced by actual English.

"A glamor charm."

"Hidden in plain sight, isn't it? If he'd left it blank, that would be the first spell you'd think to use, but if it looked like he'd hidden the writing in a code--"

"Have you read through this?"

Astoria shook her head. "I sent you the owl you as soon as I found it."

"This is brilliant," Draco said, running his fingers through McLaggen's January. "Absolutely brilliant."

He looked up to thank her but was surprised to find her leaning over his shoulder, her face mere inches from his. She startled, jerking away the same time he hastily glanced back down. "I'll leave you to it, then?" she said.

"I'll call if I need anything, yeah. Thanks," Draco murmured, his gaze steadfast on the journal even as he Summoned fresh parchment and quill. What was he doing? Astoria was attractive, yes, and her sense of humor was surprisingly sharp, but he was here to work. He was here to find her missing _husband_. This was no time to flirt, for Merlin's sake.

"Call for Pinky; she'll hear you if you do, and she'll know where to find me," Astoria said before leaving the room, Draco's gaze following her until she disappeared behind the door.

There was nothing wrong with looking, was there?

* * *

 **  
_ii. whose ancestry is purest_   
**

 

"You've gotta do better than that, Malfoy."

Draco folded his arms across his chest and glared. "Much better than what you've come up with, though."

Harry grunted his displeasure. "Trying to get anyone's memory of that night is impossible. Your lot will talk, yeah, but the minute you ask them for a memory it's suddenly one excuse after another."

"My lot?"

Harry waved his hand. "You know," he said with a shrug, "the posh ones."

Draco snorted. "My so-called lot like to keep their thoughts to themselves, Potter," he said. "I don't blame them. Did you get anybody's memories at all?"

"We're still going through the list and asking, but so far we've got only Astoria McLaggen's."

"That should be the most useful, then."

"You would think." Harry shook his head. "Looks like she spent the entire time in the kitchen supervising the elves. She didn't go into the ballroom until she tried to find McLaggen. We need eyes in that room. We need to know what happened before he disappeared."

"It's possible whoever took him wasn't a guest at all," Draco mused.

"Yes, but we still need to account for all the guests, don't we?"

Fair point, but Draco wasn't about to give Harry that satisfaction. "Have you gotten anything from the wands?"

"A few leads, but flimsy ones. We got the broken glass from the study, but yesterday Mysteries sent me word there's a backlog in their queue. Something about a redacted in redacted." Noticing the queer look Draco gave him, Harry laughed and shook his head. "I know, right? Seriously though, the memo flew in and they actually blotted out those two words. Who does that?"

"Mysteries, apparently." Unspeakables were well-regarded, but Draco, on principle, was wary of them. If mothers warned their children not to trust anything that can think for itself if they didn't know where it kept its brain, then why shouldn't they also warn against government departments whose job is kept purposely vague? Besides, they seem far more enamored of the cloak-and-dagger nature of their department than any actual cloaking and daggering. "So the wands don't give us any immediate suspects?"

"They all check out," Harry said, ticking the names off his fingers as he enumerated them. "Fawcett was Summoning a drink, and more than five people saw her at the ballroom the entire night; Cornfoot, Summerby, Davies, MacDougal--they were all seen throughout the party. Only Summerby and Davies even had brooms, and they'd come in by Floo like everyone else."

"Whoever it was could have hidden a broom anywhere around the estate grounds anytime before the party."

"We haven't found anything," Harry said. "It was the cleanest bloody getaway we've ever seen. I had the boys look for anything in the study and right outside the window, bristles or splintered wood or anything we might use, you know? But nothing."

"It was dark, though," Draco pointed out. "Did you return the next day?"

"We were there until morning broke, Malfoy," Harry said. "Even had some of the rookies help clean up after Astoria brought us all breakfast."

Draco smirked. "Tell them it builds character," he said. "Do you have a list of the last spells each wand cast that night?"

"Yeah, you need it for something?"

"I don't know," he admitted. He wasn't yet sure what to make of McLaggen's journal, which was, even after decryption, useless, filled with abbreviated words and meaningless numbers. All he could tell was that he'd been involved in some sort of business--illegally, since he held public office--but whether this had anything to do with his disappearance remained in question. At the beginning of every month he tracked the galleons spent on a list of indeterminable items: HB-H/E, HB-H/M, HB-H/G and so on, and four weeks later he tracked the profits made from their sales, prices that were sometimes triple the amount of acquisition. The only thing it told Draco was that Cormac McLaggen was fast becoming a very rich man.

Harry's brow knit in the usual manner it did whenever he was trying to think. He didn't say anything, however, choosing instead to Summon the list from one of the file cabinets. "You think it's got something to do with who he's been working with?" he asked, tapping the parchment so that it duplicated itself and handing the copy to Draco.

"Maybe," Draco said, studying it before he rolled it up and slipped it into his pocket. "I better get going. Astoria says she's going to try to get into Cormac's personal vault today."

"Think there's something in there?"

"A lot of galleons, no doubt," Draco snorted. "But who knows? The goblins probably won't even let her."

"She's his wife."

"And the goblins guard those vaults with tight fists," Draco pointed out. "In case he doesn't return, they've got all claim to whatever's in his vault. How do you think they get their gold?"

"That's insane!"

"It's goblin law, is what it is," Draco said. He wondered if they'd know anything about the gold coin he found in McLaggen's desk, another piece of the puzzle that had yet to find its place. He pushed his seat back and stood. "I'll let you know if I find anything."

"All right. Give me an update later, yeah?"

He doubted the goblins would tell him, at least not without a price. "I will," he told Harry.

* * *

Draco found Astoria sipping a glass of water when he arrived at Fortescue's later that day. She'd chosen a table out on the patio, wearing a flowered dress that was more befitting a Muggleborn and a wide-brimmed hat that covered half her face from the sun.

"Twenty-nine hundred flavors, and you ignore them all?" he asked, pulling back a seat and settling himself upon it.

"I was saving my appetite," Astoria said. She took her purse and stood, gesturing for Draco to follow.

"Where are we going?"

"The goblins refused my request," Astoria said, her pace brisk but not hurried. Diagon Alley wasn't as busy as it would be had it been the weekend, but she caught the attention of a few witches and wizards who turned to follow her as they passed. There had been an article that morning, a feature on the missing politician's wife and her grief. Her face had filled up the entire front page. She ignored them, slipping inside a small storefront without warning.

"What are we doing, then?" Draco asked, ducking in after her.

"You need a change of clothes."

"And I'm supposed to find a new wardrobe in an apothecary?"

Astoria rolled her eyes, tapping his robes with her wand and a flick of her wrist. "I'm not used to this spell yet," she explained, studying the fabric of his clothes as it molded itself to a Muggle-style cut. "Stay still. I know my Transfiguration; don't worry." Another charm turned his pants--he was not sure he trusted how close he wanted her wand to be in relation to his crotch--into the denim blue that seemed so popular even with wizards these days. "But this will have to do."

"The goblins aren't going to change their minds now that we look like Muggles," Draco pointed out.

"No, but the jeans should make it easier to mount their dragon when we carry out our daring escape." She laughed when she caught the look on Draco's face. "The goblins can keep their vaults," she said, taking his hand. "We're going to Muggle Brighton."

"Why?"

"There's this _amazing_ bakery you've got to try."

* * *

Of all Draco's Housemates, it was, perhaps unsurprisingly, Tracey Davis who had recovered most admirably.

Yes, Blaise had his empire, Pansy her husband, and even Theodore Nott had found the financial backing necessary to open his own high-end club. But in the end it was sweet, quiet Tracey Davis who knew well enough that she was better off in the Muggle world.

She still kept her wand with her, and she hadn't been so inaccessible that her friends had no means of getting in touch, but for the better part of her days, she busied herself running a small but popular bakery in Brighton.

Draco had heard of this through snatches of gossip that his mother liked to tell him at their weekly teas, but in the minutes after he recovered from the after-effects of sudden Side-Along Apparition, he found himself walking up the street to Foxglove Bakery. It stood amid a row of storefronts a few blocks away from the pier, by the crossing of the main road and a residential neighborhood, its awning a cheerful mint and the shop name painted in fading, regal brown.

The mix of tourists and residents paid no attention to the pair of them, even as Draco squirmed in his charmed clothing and fumbled to hide his wand when he realized it might have been sticking out of his back pocket. Astoria hurried ahead, deftly avoiding dazed travelers as they stopped and looked with every step they took.

She picked out a lemon cake topped with frosting twice its height and asked for his choice, a chocolate stout-- _Chocolate Cheer_ , the glass case label said. Brushing aside his offer to pay ("They don't accept sickles here."), she set a few quid down on the counter before wandering over to a nearby table. Most patrons had chosen to sun themselves in the outdoor patio; they were two of the few who stayed inside.

"How do you like your Cheer?" Tracey asked, wiping her hands on her paisley-dotted mint green apron. Her hair was gathered in a loose ponytail, wisps of fine blonde strands fraying around flour-streaked cheeks. She offered Draco and Astoria a warm smile.

"It's rich," Draco said, taking a bite. It had the faint sweet taste of stout, and a burst of flavor that blossomed through him, warm and cheering, long after he swallowed the last mouthful. He wasn't often one to wax poetic about food, but it was clear that Tracey had found her calling. "You know I like chocolate."

"And how's Lemon Delight today, Astoria?"

"Lovely as always," she said, flashing Tracey a bright smile. "I saw a new flavor there, but I'd been craving Delight all day."

"Oh, Coffee Comfort? You should try it! One of the girls thought it up, and we've been selling out every day we've had it." Tracey Summoned two of the cupcakes from behind the counter.

"The _Statute_ , Tracey!" Draco hissed.

"Oh, don't start with me too. No one ever notices," she assured him, nudging the cupcake towards Draco before she sat herself across him. "Muggles are incredibly skilled at coming up with explanations for anything they don't understand."

"Even so--"

"Go on; try it."

"It's coffee," Astoria noted. "You ought to like it."

Never one to refuse sweets when they were offered him, Draco bit into the cupcake. "Hm. Very mellow."

"That's the idea." Tracey beamed. She glanced at Astoria, and when she spoke again her voice was a touch more serious. "How are you?"

Astoria shrugged. "As well as can be, given everything," she said. "The MLE have been helpful, but it's alarming how difficult it can be to go anywhere without a tail."

"Potter sent his men to follow you?" Draco asked, confused.

"No. The Prophet. They've been trying to get me to grant them an interview. I refused, but they wrote an article anyway. He's missing, not--" she nibbled on her cupcake, as though to hold her tongue. "It's tasteless."

"It _is_ The Prophet," Draco pointed out.

Tracey reached out to hold Astoria's hand. "You're always welcome here, if you need a place to be alone. And if I could be of any help at all--"

Astoria smiled. "I know. Thanks, Trace." She glanced at Draco for a moment. "That was actually--well, I didn't come here just for the cupcakes and privacy, I must admit."

"What a dagger to the heart! Aren't the cupcakes enough?" Tracey asked, though her tone was light. "How can I help, then?"

"We've been trying to find a reason anybody might have wanted to take Cormac. Auror Potter's convinced a ransom is on its way, but we should have gotten _something_ by now." She gave a brittle laugh. "And anyway, I wouldn't even have access to the wealth my dear husband's been amassing."

"I don't understand," Tracey murmured. "What does that have to do with me?"

At this, Astoria licked her lips. "I was hoping--you knew him, once. Possibly better than I did."

Draco raised an eyebrow.

"That was a long time ago, Astoria," Tracey said. "Never anything serious, you know that."

"Maybe not for you, but certainly for him." Astoria seemed surprised to hear herself say as much, glancing at Draco for a moment before she added, "You were both interested in business."

"I was interested in cupcakes."

"He's been working with someone," Draco explained. He hadn't understood why Astoria brought them to Tracey at first, but he was beginning to catch on. "But with whom or for what purpose, we don't know."

"I was hoping you might have an idea," Astoria admitted.

Tracey broke off a piece of Astoria's cupcake. "He didn't want me to keep Foxglove open, you know. Said it would be unseemly for a witch to keep working once--" she hesitated.

"Once she had a husband to support her," Astoria supplied. "It's all right, Tracey. It's no big secret you didn't meet eye to eye on that."

"He had many friends who were in business," Tracey said. "He always talked about which ones would make good investments. He came into quite a bit of money when his father died."

"Do you remember who he mentioned?" Draco asked. "Anybody who might have been at the party?"

Tracey's brow crinkled in thought. "A better question might be who _didn't_ he want to invest in? One week it was Caleb Warrington, the next it would be Julian Dorny, then Blaise Zabini."

"Zabini?"

"They met at the Slug Club."

Draco frowned. He'd assumed Blaise had been Astoria's guest. "Were Warrington and Dorny at the party?" he asked Astoria.

"I invited all his friends; Julian couldn't make it, but Caleb was there, yes."

"As was Zabini."

"And fifty other friends," Astoria reminded him.

Draco turned to Tracey. "Has Potter spoken with you yet?"

"Not since that night, no. Why?"

"You said you wanted to help."

"I do."

"How long were you at the party for?"

"Most of it."

"Then you wouldn't happen to mind sparing a memory, would you?"

* * *

"And she just said yes?"

"Potter, if you had half my charm, perhaps you'd be as successful," Draco drawled. He'd walked into the department with a touch more flare that morning, brandishing a strand of Tracey's memory in a slim tube. _We've got our eyes_ , he'd declared, the moment ruined when Harry blinked with big blank eyes at him, uncomprehending.

Once Draco explained, however, Harry all but hauled him to the viewing room, a fancy name for one of the storage closets in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. It was the last place Dumbledore might have thought his precious invention would end up in, but bureaucracy was a muddy swamp of indecision. When the Pensieve came into Harry's possession--Draco wasn't sure how--he'd immediately offered it for the Aurors' use. Yet no one in the Wizengamot felt confident that Pensieve memories could not be tampered with, and they have yet to allow those memories to stand as evidence in court.

The closet was cramped, as closets usually were. The Pensieve lay low and a few shelves above it stored rows upon rows of small vials from past MLE cases. Harry had been determined to make use of it one way or the other.

He touched the surface of the Pensieve with the tip of his wand, sending misty-silver ripples to the edges of the shallow pool. The images, hazy and clouded, parted to let a lone figure rise from the whorls of the night's memories. "On three?"

"On three," Draco agreed.

They both reached out at two.

* * *

Memories were funny things.

Captured in Pensieves, they were accurate and unbiased documentation of certain events, yet any one person's memories could still be different from another's, maybe not in the facts it presented, but at least in the texture in which it presented those facts.

Draco had only gotten a glimpse of what was left of the party when he was at the estate, but in Tracey Davis' memory he was assaulted with light and color that pervaded the entirety of the ballroom. Sensation was an aspect that rarely appeared in memories, but Tracey had an affinity for it. Draco's skin warmed from the glow of a hundred floating candles and his cheeks flushed from the whirlwind of dancing around him, as he and Harry had been thrust right into the center of the ballroom.

"Do you see McLaggen anywhere?" Harry asked, pushing past the crowd with all the grace of a lumbering giant slogging through mud.

"Careful, Potter."

"Why? It's not like they can feel it."

Draco winced anyway, something unsettling in the pit of his stomach as he watched Harry walk through people. He turned away, scanning the area for any sign of McLaggen. Memories moved in real time, a constant loop from beginning to end. They'd have to review everything all over again if they missed anything once.

It occurred to him that the dance floor was more or less a snapshot of everyone he'd ever known, seven years later. He knew these faces and if they weren't familiar, he would have recognized their names. Wizarding society was patently, pathetically tight-knit that way.

There was Pritchard, fumbling through a waltz with Dobbs. Warrington, charming a group of old friends while a bored Clearwater downed the rest of her drink in one go. Katherine Bundy, sipping from a flute of champagne before she burst into a peal of laughter at something someone had said.

Powder blue dress robes brushed past--through?--his leg, and Draco jerked away, still unfamiliar with the sensation of being a ghost in someone's memories. It was Tracey, her hands around the shoulders of Theodore Nott, who smiled tenderly but danced stiffly.

"Breathe, Teddy," she murmured, rubbing his arm. "You're doing fine."

"I'm embarrassing you."

"You aren't. Here, why don't you try--one, two, step, yes. And again, and--see?"

"People are looking," he whispered, the faintest flush of red on his cheeks.

"Let them!" Tracey declared. "You have nothing to worry about."

Theodore laughed. "Let me get you a drink. Please? I promise I'll let you teach me how to dance some more later."

"Alright," Tracey conceded, and Draco felt a pang in his chest. From Tracey, perhaps? The ballroom did seem to have dimmed a shade. He watched as she lost the smile she wore for Theodore and stepped out of the dance floor, running into a woman she knew and falling into easy chatter with her.

Draco's gaze followed Theodore, but the man disappeared into the sea of baubled, sparkling witches and wizards. Draco frowned, hesitant to move through the crowd but finding himself with no other choice.

"Malfoy!"

He looked up to find Harry in a far corner of the ballroom, signaling for him to come over.

"What is it?"

And there they were, hidden behind a thick, large curtain: Cormac McLaggen and Blaise Zabini deep in conversation.

Or deep in argument, as it were.

"This is _not_ what we agreed upon!" Blaise hissed.

"My hands are tied," McLaggen told him, raising his hands with a careless shrug.

"Two weeks ago you said it was a sure thing."

"And now it no longer is. What would you have me do?"

" _Fix it_."

"I'm afraid I can't. I don't see why you're so upset. We planned for this."

"You swore you'd ensure expediency."

"I tried, but he'll have none of it. Unless--" McLaggen smirked. "I hear he's sweet on your mother, perhaps--"

"Don't bring my mother into this," Blaise snapped. "Don't you _ever_ \--"

"It's not as though whoring for favors is a foreign concept to her."

Blaise's fist connected with McLaggen's cheek with a loud crack of bone colliding with bone.

"You _bastard_!" McLaggen cried out, but Blaise's wand had been drawn.

"Don't you dare bring her into this," Blaise repeated, his voice low and ominous.

"I have more things to worry about than your whinging," McLaggen said instead. "We'll proceed as planned."

Draco shot Harry a look just as McLaggen stomped through the ballroom, ascending the stairs that led to his study. Heart thumping, Draco sprinted after him, eager to find out what transpired after.

But the stairs ended in a black wall, cutting off in the middle of a step where the hall should have begun. "Fuck!" Draco swore, holding on to the stair's rails as he almost pitched headfirst into the abyss.

"Shite!" Harry echoed behind him.

Tracey's memories didn't extend far enough for them, and Draco did not want to find out what would happen to him if he stepped off the edges of what Tracey remembered. In many cases magic remained unknowable.

"Let's go back," Draco suggested. "We'll have to follow Blaise."

Harry nodded, but Blaise Zabini was no longer behind the curtains when they returned, and he was nowhere in the ballroom either.

"He couldn't have gone up the stairs," Harry said, voicing the suspicion that had begun to form in Draco's mind. "We were just there. We would have seen him."

"Where did he go, then?"

Just as Harry started to say something, they were both pulled back into the viewing room.

They'd reached the memory's end.

"We'll have to go back again."

"Fuck."

* * *

Construction was on full tilt for Zabini's company headquarters, a full two and a half miles from the nearest Muggle establishment as per Ministry regulations. The radius had been warded, and it was only after some skilled wandwork that Draco slipped past, though perhaps not undetected.

He didn't need to be, anyway.

Warlocks--Architectural Charmers, all of them, given their uniform purple-and-gold robes and synchronized wand-waving--were scattered around the large building, already charmed to look like a crumbling old fort. Blaise Zabini stood a few meters away, overseeing the entire process.

Stood, Draco thought, might be an understatement. The man wore a thin white sleeveless top and loose khaki pants, in contrast with the magical attire of everyone else around him. He had settled on a small elevation of rocks, one foot forward and his body jutting at an angle that, combined with the wind blowing against his loose clothing and the solemn look on his face, reminded Draco of a Witch Weekly spread.

"You always did make a habit of posing for the masses," he said by way of greeting.

"I could have had you obliterated by the wards had I so chosen, you know. I'm busy, Malfoy. You'll have to make an appointment."

Draco resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "I'm here to talk about Cormac McLaggen."

Blaise slanted his eyes at him. "Again: I'm busy. Terribly sorry I can't accommodate you right now," he said, in a tone that made it clear he wasn't sorry at all.

"You had an argument with McLaggen that night," Draco said, undeterred. They'd gone back to the beginning to see how the conversation began but it gave them no new information. "I had no idea you were even acquaintances."

"I was invited to his birthday party. Clearly we knew each other."

"And the argument?"

"I don't recall any such fight."

"You punched him hard enough to bruise."

"Drunken folly, no doubt. Sometimes I don't know my own strength."

"No, but I don't suppose your investors would like to hear about your arrest on the Prophet's front page tomorrow, do you?"

"You're pinning his disappearance on _that_?"

"The Ministry wants a suspect. I doubt they'll care who I bring in if it buys them time."

Blaise's lips curled into an ugly sneer. "Who doesn't care? The Ministry or you? We all know what you would do to remain in their good graces, don't we."

"Tell me what your business with McLaggen is," Draco said, his fist clenching but his voice as even as ever. He wouldn't take the bait; he refused.

Blaise held Draco's gaze for what seemed like eternity. Finally, he signaled one of the men to come over. "Marcus, take over on the ground. Stand here and make sure the charms are performed to the letter." To Draco, he gestured towards the water. "That's France on the other side of that sea. We plan to go global, and the idea is to create another building on the other side so we can begin hiring French wizards as we expand into the rest of the continent."

"Don't you already? Quality Quidditch, Apothicaire--"

"We still rely on distributors overseas," Blaise explained. "But my mother no longer trusts them. We need our own people situated in key markets to make sure everything runs as they do back here. We recently purchased the Quafflepunchers from the Bergerons and it's easier to have a base in France out of which to operate. International Floo travel just isn't what it used to be anymore."

"A good old-fashioned buyout, for once." His father had owned many profitable businesses, but that was nothing compared to the cunning way Blaise's mother took over companies by conveniently marrying into them.

Blaise glared. "I'll humor your requests, Malfoy, but only those for Ministry business."

Draco almost smirked. "Proximity won't help where international borders still exist," he pointed out instead.

"Yes, I was working with Cormac on that. We were hoping to grant employees on both sides some leniency in international Floo travel. A special permission, if you will, considering the number of jobs we're creating on both sides of the border."

"What kind of special permissions?"

"Did you know you're not allowed to enter a country twice within a twenty-four hour span?" Blaise asked. "It is, as it turns out, punishable by law. We wanted to come up with an exemption for employees of companies with offices in more than one country."

Draco raised an eyebrow.

"We're only setting precedents," Blaise replied with an easy, practiced smile. "There's no sense in restricting anyone who wishes to encourage commerce and trade, is there?"

"Of course not. And when did McLaggen promise this permission?"

Blaise shrugged. "He's run into a hiccup or two since."

"It can't be good for business," Draco murmured, eyeing Blaise.

"It's even worse now that our primary contact has gone missing," Blaise pointed out. "The man is a flake, but he's more useful to me in the Ministry than elsewhere."

He had a very good point, but Draco wasn't one to give Blaise the satisfaction of acknowledging as much. There was still the issue of the money McLaggen made every month, anyway, and he didn't know yet if Blaise had a hand in that or not. He looked at the half-erected structure before them. It looked like it was in the middle of demolition, but that was how wizarding buildings were made to look whenever they were in the vicinity of Muggle towns. It meant the Charmers were doing their job. "How's construction going?"

"On schedule."

"Mind if I take a look?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"You can either let me, or I can make you."

Blaise muttered something that sounded insulting under his breath, but he steered Draco towards the building, warning him to duck under a low-hanging beam as they entered a side door that was, for now, an actual hole in the wall.

"I see you've decided to go modern," Draco said.

There it was again, that smug grin. "There's no building like it," Blaise declared. "It's better even than the Ministry's. Each level serves as the corporate offices of each company under our group, although of course with growth on the horizon we've made sure we would be able to fill out a few more levels below ground. Our underground offices will be second only to Gringotts' in all of Britain."

The interior of the building was massive. Outside it was charmed to be unassuming, but inside the Zabinis spared no expense. Floor to ceiling windows reflected a bright and sunny outdoors. The entryways to the various offices were impossibly tall. In a corner, a group of warlocks consulted runic texts as they inscribed them around the arch of a door at least ten feet tall.

"Special wards," Blaise said, directing Draco's attention to the windows. "Do you know a fixture like that alone is worth fifty thousand galleons? The Founders did it themselves for the Great Hall, of course."

"Impressive." Draco said, though his mind was alight with other thoughts.

* * *

He knew the facts well enough, Draco truly did. But he couldn't shake that nagging notion at the back of his head: no matter what he knew, he could not bring himself to trust Blaise Zabini.

"Gut instinct," he muttered with a twist of his mouth. "Salazar help me, I'm turning into Potter."

There had been little more to see at Blaise's new building, and even less to learn from his lies. Draco had left empty-handed but resolved not to remain that way. Harry had no qualms jumping headfirst into his suspicions, but Draco was a much more cautious wizard. He'd been keeping an eye on Blaise's whereabouts since that visit, which was just as well, considering the snail's pace that every other aspect of the investigation had been on.

Every morning he hovered a hundred feet above the Zabini manor, listening through the chimney as Blaise moved around inside. Every morning he would wait until Blaise stepped into the Floo, announcing his intended destination before a puff of green swallowed him whole. Every morning Draco would Apparate a few stores down from the Diagon Alley building that housed Blaise's company, and every day he sat himself in a cafe just across the building, keeping an eye out for Blaise.

In general, Blaise Zabini was punctual and predictable. He never lunched outside unless it was for business. In the early afternoons he visited the construction site for an hour or two, returning before five and staying on past that. He dined alone in his manor and filled his evenings with more meetings or socials, usually at The Black Orchid, an exclusive club that Theodore Nott owned. Whatever business Blaise conducted there so far remained unknown to Draco.

It was beginning to be an exercise of extreme patience in the face of dullness, but Blaise broke routine just a few days later.

It was five past two, the hour of construction supervision, and Blaise had just left the building to go to the nearest Floo station. Draco was only half-watching, more engrossed in filling out The Prophet's crossword truth be told, that he nearly missed it when, instead of turning left toward the Floo station, Blaise turned right.

Draco glanced up as soon as he realized, then ducked his head quickly to avoid being seen. After a few seconds, he grabbed his paper and left a few sickles on the table.

Then he followed Blaise Zabini into Knockturn Alley.

Blaise slipped first into Borgin & Burke's, and Draco would have stayed outside to wait for him had he not been privy to the way Caractacus Burke treated his clients' privacy. Draco cast a cloaking charm on himself before heading to the back of the store.

Sure enough, there he caught Blaise emerging on the other side, with a furtive glance around him before he walked on. He must have spotted Draco earlier, or at least feared a tail for a different reason. Draco kept a little distance as he followed Blaise, who ducked behind an apothecary, entered the Hairless Pig, came out its side door, and wove through the back alleys and side streets of Knockturn Alley with such speed and ease that Draco doubted this was a route Blaise rarely took.

Blaise walked along a cramped row of what appeared to be abandoned buildings, a section of Knockturn Alley so undesirable that even its usual visitors left it alone. He disappeared inside one of them--Draco would have missed it if the door hadn't still been struggling to creak shut when he reached the two-story building.

 _The Golden Snitch_ , the sign outside said. Beside the door was a window, clouded with dust, but through it Draco could see a crouched figure handing something from across a table to what could only be Blaise Zabini. They exchanged a few words, and then Blaise disappeared from sight.

"Well, fuck." Pausing to cast more glamors on himself--a charm turned his hair black; another gave him mud brown eyes; a third, which bruised his ego a bit, put a few pockmarks on the unblemished skin of his face--Draco decided to go ahead and play it by ear. He opened the door and strode in.

"We're full," greeted a wrinkled hag who manned the desk. Draco had walked into an inn, and it stank of cat-piss and looked twice as unappealing.

"It's fine," he said, walking past the desk and heading for the stairs behind her. "I'm here to meet someone."

"You haven't got a key."

"I don't need one. I'll knock," he said, skipping the steps two at a time. He came upon a row of doors, none of them looking any more likely to contain Blaise than the others did. Below, the hag was cursing and hissing for him to return, even as she struggled to scale the stairs herself. He approached the nearest door, its wooden frame scarred with scratches and cuts and splintering in places. He knocked. There was no sound from inside, and the door would not budge when he tried to push it open.

"Y'can't be in here!" the hag was saying, closer now behind him.

He flicked his wrist, and in an instant the door exploded open. Inside was a sorry-looking double bed, a night table, a bathroom door. It looked fit for an Azkaban cell, but worse than that, it was empty.

"That's property damage, sir, that is!" shrieked the hag, but Draco ignored her, moving to the second door. He cast the same curse to open it, and it swung to reveal the same room. It was empty as well, as was the third room, and the fourth, and the fifth.

" _Stop_!"

Draco disarmed her before she could hex him. "You said you were full."

"You were trouble, I could sense it. We don't want the likes of you ruining our inn. Get out, or I'll call for law enforcement!"

"Where is he?"

"Where's who?"

"Zabini. I saw him come in. Where is he?"

"Nobody by that name came in. Get out of my inn!"

"I saw him enter. He was _here_."

"There's nobody in the inn. It's a slow day, and now I've got your rubbish to fix. Don't you think I won't be setting my goblins after you for damages," she threatened.

"Yeah, well, you can charge it to the MLE," Draco snapped, kicking the nearest door in frustration.

* * *

"I need two things, and don't ask me questions until later," Draco said when he strode into Harry's office.

Harry laughed. "And I'm supposed to just say yes?"

"Obviously. You know I hate speculation until I know things for certain," Draco replied. "Just trust me on this."

"Trust you."

"I got you to Zabini, didn't I?" The last spell Blaise's wand had cast had been a concealment charm, and though Blaise claimed he'd used it to hide a stain on his robes, most of Harry's men were now scouring the grounds of the McLaggen estate looking for whatever it was that may have been concealed.

Harry sighed. "What is it?"

"First, I need to use the Pensieve."

"Did you get a memory from Zabini?" Harry asked.

"No, it's for my own. There's something I need to look at," Draco said.

Harry seemed to consider this for a moment, but only perhaps to make Draco impatient. "All right," he conceded. "And the second?"

Draco smirked. "I was thinking it's high time the MLE paid for me to take a short holiday," he said. "To France, perhaps."

* * *

"Paris?"

"No, not Paris."

"Where, then?"

Draco glanced at Astoria. He'd come by to borrow the runic text he'd used to counter the wards protecting McLaggen's journal. That was an hour and a half ago--now, he was sitting in the parlor with an empty cup of coffee and a plate full of biscuit crumbs, listening to Astoria recount the praises Helene Greengrass had sung of his mother. Narcissa, he wasn't surprised to find out, had caught up with Helene and Miranda after all. There was supposed to be a small dinner that weekend, and Draco had to tell her he couldn't make it. He wasn't sure how long he'd be out of the country. "Not Paris," was all he said.

Astoria rolled her eyes. "Are you there for business, at least?"

"What personal reasons would I have in France?"

"Do you have a lead?" Astoria wanted to know.

"I might," Draco admitted. "But I can't say anything unless I'm certain."

"Of course," she said. Her lips were a small heart-shaped pout, hazel eyes clouded with thought. "Was it Tracey's memory? Did it help?"

Draco nodded. "We think we've found somebody," he said. "I'll let you know as soon as we do, of course."

She smiled. "Thank you." She set her cup on its porcelain saucer and nodded at his arm. "How's it feeling?"

"Sorry?"

"Your arm. Have you been playing with poisonous potions again?"

Draco touched his arm instinctively. It still stung, but the pain had dulled to a constant throbbing that he could ignore, given enough distraction. "How did you know?"

"You've been trying to do everything one-handed since you arrived," she told him. "I came to your left to hand you the book, and you reached over with your right hand to take it." She shook her head at the stunned look he gave her. "You're not the only one who can make an induction here or there."

"I'm fine," he said instead.

"Has it gone, then?"

"No, not as much as I'd hoped." The blasted snake burned red, and its skull was barely noticeable anymore, but it continued to hiss angry lines on his arm.

Astoria Summoned a small box from outside the room. "Poor Amos," she murmured, undoing the latch and rummaging inside. "Here, I have a salve that might help."

"I'm fine," Draco protested--the last time Amos and Astoria met, he'd worried they would make some kind of unholy alliance between the two of them to torment him. He closed his hand over the arm. "But thank you."

"Don't be a baby, this won't hurt much," she said, approaching him with the threat of salve and cotton ball. "Did you even disinfect it before coming here?"

"Did I even disinfect--I know how to work with potions!"

Astoria laughed. "That wasn't meant as an insult," she said, though Draco doubted her. He yanked the edge of his sleeve up over his arm.

"It's _fine_ ," he insisted. "And uninfected, thank you very much."

"Hello, Amos," Astoria said, ignoring Draco. She dabbed the cotton with a bit of creamy yellow salve and touched a side of it to his Mark. "There," she said, speaking to Draco now, "that isn't so bad, is it?"

"It's unnecessary," Draco mumbled, though the salve did soothe a cool patch of comfort onto his tender skin. Even the snake unfurled in its coil, curling into a position that looked more at ease. Draco frowned. "Is this good for _it_ too?"

"You ask like I'm supposed to be an expert on Dark Mark magic," Astoria said. "I don't know, but he isn't fighting you now, is he?"

He's meant to be dying, Draco wanted to say, wrinkling his nose when a slip of Amos' tongue--Merlin's tits, he'd started calling it by name now, too--the _snake's_ tongue rattled idly in the air as the salve was spread on the length of its body. "He _should_ be fighting me," he said. "I'm not meant to be his host or friend. He's a parasite."

"Does he feed off you somehow?" Astoria asked. "Does he still burn, like when you were called?"

Draco shrugged. "That's not the point," he mumbled. Astoria dabbed a second layer of the salve around his Mark, her touch gentling whenever it neared the center. The tattoo looked brighter, slicked with the oils of the potion, but the lines were thinner now, less black and more gray.

"But does he?" Astoria's face was too close to his, but he didn't mind. She held his gaze, and though her hand had stilled, her fingers stayed on his arm, light as the drizzle of early morning rain.

"No," he admitted.

"He's a remnant, then, isn't he? Just like you are." She dropped the cotton ball into a small plastic bag and twisted the lid to cover the bottle of salve, returning it to its kit and Banishing it from the room. She smoothed her skirts and stood, calling for Pinky to take their plates and cups away in a flurry of motion as sudden and hurried as the treatment of his arm had been languid and idle. Intimate, even, he realized with a flush of guilt.

"Thank you," he said, feeling awkward and out of place as he stood in the middle of the room, clutching a book in one hand and sporting a sleeping snake in the other arm.

"Think nothing of it," she said, once Pinky had left. "You know--"

"Yeah?"

"He's not the Dark Lord," Astoria said, words uttered with care. She hesitated, but Draco said nothing, so she continued. "He won't bring him back, the same way that removing him won't rewrite the fact that he was there."

"I know."

* * *

The Quiberon Quafflepunchers were in the middle of a transition. Their owner, Andre Bergeron, had just sold the team to an English company and the French papers have finally gotten wind of it. It came out in _Le Voyant_ early that morning, and the staff hadn't had a moment's peace since.

"No, no, monsieur, that is not true," Yvonne Blanc said to her fireplace, where a round, red-faced man with a white mustache was spewing a string of incomprehensible ranting. "The Zabinis do not plan on relocating the Quafflepunchers anywhere. They'll continue playing for the French League."

"I do not care! This is an embarrassment to Quafflepuncher fans! How do we know that they know what they're doing?"

"I can assure you--" Yvonne began, her voice strained to the point of exhaustion. Alec Aucoin was just one of many season ticket holders who had expressed their dismay--to put it lightly--over the new ownership, and she didn't have the energy to keep smiling through the call. Not when all she really wanted to do was to reach through the grate and shake him to his senses. Pierre came by with a stack of mail and an apologetic smile, and she groaned, catching the red envelopes and the beginnings of steam rising from beneath the sealed flaps. Those would not be the first batch of howlers to have arrived at the offices either. "If you'll hold for just a second, Monsieur Aucoin--"

She didn't let him sputter his protest. She gathered the bunch, holding them close to her chest as she ran for the last room at the end of the hall. The envelopes grew heated in her hands and she winced, tempted to just drop them then and there.

"Incoming!" she warned, flinging open the door and chucking the envelopes in. She slammed the door shut right away, but not before the chorus of a hundred angry customers momentarily deafened her.

"Thank you for your patience," she said, tone clipped and unnaturally perky when she returned to her desk. Aucoin had stayed, which surprised her, but the break also seemed to have knocked some sensibility into him. He was breathing more calmly now, though he still looked displeased. "As I was saying, I can assure you that the Zabini family intends to keep the same level of excellence that the Quafflepunchers have achieved under the Bergerons' care, and will continue to entrust its daily operations to our President, Monsieur Lemieux. The team has never been in a better position to compete for the French Cup and we look forward to showing you exactly how much in the coming season. If you'll excuse me, I believe I have another inquiry to handle. Good day."

She ended the call before he could say any more--if he had a problem with that, then he could take it up with Marc, but Yvonne suspected her supervisor would have little patience for irate clients at this point. "Quiberon Quafflepunchers, this is Yvonne speaking. How may I help direct your call?"

A madame this time, speaking so quickly she had trouble keeping up with her list of complaints. Yvonne interjected with the appropriate hums of understanding, peppered the one-sided conversation with "I see's" of concern. She would wait until Madame Laurent finished before she'd counter with the company spiel. She wasn't even in ticket sales, but they had been slammed as soon as they came in, so Marc had asked her to handle as much as she could and hand off what she couldn't.

"Excuse me."

She turned to look. No one had visited the actual office and she wondered if, at 2 PM--goodness, she'd meant to take her lunch break _hours_ ago!--they would have their first in-person complaint. "Please hold, Madame. May I help you?"

"I'm here to see Marc Talbot," the man said. He had messy black hair, dark brown eyes, and a faint English accent that tinted his otherwise impeccable French. "Mr. Zabini sent me. I know it's short notice, but I wanted to talk to him and see if I could find time to get on Patrice Lemieux's calendar before the week ends."

"Oh! Of course, hold on--" Yvonne deactivated the wards that led to the executive offices.

"Thank you. Have a good one," the man said, flashing her a toothy smile as he passed.

It wasn't until he'd gone that Yvonne realized she'd never gotten his name.

And it wasn't until she was back home--deep in the pages of the latest Andrea Beaumont thriller, body soaking in a lavender-scented bath and a glass of red by her side--that Yvonne realized she'd never seen him leave.

* * *

A simple Undetectable Extension Charm can do wonders for any wizard. In Draco's case, it gave him room to stretch his legs and fit himself in one of Talbot's cabinets while he waited for the Quafflepunchers' offices to empty. (Thankfully they were French; that moment came at five o'clock exactly.)

Still, he waited another hour, just in case, before emerging from the cabinet and making his way out. He'd been unable to access the floor plan for the building--had in fact, been unable to do more than decide he'd pay it a visit--but he had a hunch and he thought he knew where he might be able to confirm it.

Security in a Quidditch team's office was scant, which was why Draco had decided to break into it in the first place. The main headquarters would have been reinforced with a dozen strong wards, none of which would leave him alive, but here he found it easy enough to slip out of the room and enter others with only a concealing charm to cover his bases and the glamors on his features to mask his identity, however crudely. He passed a row of executive offices, all of which were name-plated, but none of which he had any interest in. It wasn't until he was at the very end of the hall that it occurred to him he might have been going the wrong way.

"Shit," he muttered. He'd been so certain he needed to be in this wing that he hadn't bothered coming up with alternatives. He retraced his steps, taking note of the names on the offices as he passed them by until he returned to Talbot's. Not one of them looked right. He continued down the other side, coming across intersecting halls that led to the training rooms, ticket sales, Quidditch operations. What was he missing? Where would Blaise have placed it?

It wasn't until he bumped against the glass door that led back to the reception area that it dawned on him. The archway hadn't been _hidden_. He'd assumed it was because the warlocks had still been working on it, but it would have been impossible to move, and if it had been intended for a private office, then--

Draco entered the reception area. The main entrance was directly ahead of it, but there was another hall across from him that he hadn't noticed earlier.

It led to the pitch.

Of course. Draco crossed the reception area and made his way down the very end of the hall, where a set of double doors opened out to the field.

It was the only set of doors he saw. There was nothing to his left and nothing to his right. Just the hall, the door, and the pitch outside. Draco frowned and for a moment, he contemplated going back to the offices and searching each one for the archway.

But it didn't make sense. The archway _should_ be here, somewhere that wouldn't seem out of place. The archway in the Zabini offices had been located in what would be a high-traffic area. He remembered that, remembered some of the runes that had been set in the still-drying cement, and even in The Golden Snitch there had been only a grouchy crone standing in the way; the doors, even with the numerous scratches marking their frames, still bore the runes--Draco's eyes widened--they _had_ been hidden in plain sight. It had just taken him too long to realize what to look for.

" _Finite Incantatem,_ " he whispered, wand aimed at the doorframe. He watched the solid black metal fade into the same runed cement--another glamor charm uncovered. " _Knew_ it."

He knew where this one led, but he pulled out a piece of paper and a self-inking quill to copy the markings anyway, careful never to write the full characters down. He could translate them at his leisure when he returned home, though he was certain that he would find them an exact match with the runes from Blaise's headquarters. That was the wonderful thing with these doors--they came in pairs, keyed in by runic spells to lead users to their other half. If Draco hadn't worked on the vanishing cabinets it might have taken him longer to understand what they were. He wrinkled his nose at the bitter memory, finishing up his notes and tucking them in the inside pocket of his robes.

"Got everything you need, then?" the voice--deep, baritone, Blaise's--came not five feet behind him. "Turn around. I want to see where you're keeping your hands."

Draco turned on his heels, empty hands raised, and came face to face with Blaise's wand.

"Did anybody ever tell you black wasn't your color?" Blaise asked with a derisive laugh, undoing the charms to Draco's disguise.

"I've been told I carry it well," Draco said. "Fancy running into you here."

"This is a Zabini-owned company now. It needed the same security standards my other companies enjoy." Blaise's tone was calm and nonchalant, like he was talking about the weather. His hand never wavered, and if Draco knew him well, then Blaise would not hesitate to hex his balls off if he so much as flinched.

"Do you personally enforce security in all your companies too?"

"You're lucky I didn't send my warlocks after you. They're the sort who get paid to ask questions later. As it stands, you're trespassing on private property and I could have just Stunned you on sight."

"Was this McLaggen's idea?" Draco asked. "You were never going to ask for more lenient travel restrictions, were you? You were going to bypass it altogether."

"I'm sorry--am I supposed to be entertaining your questions right now?" Blaise asked, and even in the dimness of the hall Draco could see the glint of a smarmy grin. "I have no idea what rubbish you're spouting. If you could kindly get off the premises, however, I'd be much obliged."

"I've got enough to implicate you both," Draco said.

"Oh, how nice. You wish to use the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to go after a dead man and an Italian citizen?"

"How do you know he's dead?"

"A week without a ransom or a body? If he'd been abducted then his captors would have found a way to make sure the ransom was delivered. They've done no such thing, which makes me think he's probably rotting in the bottom of a lake somewhere instead." Blaise cocked his head to the side. "I thought this was your area of expertise. Hands behind your head, please."

Draco grit his teeth and did as he was told. "This is still enough to halt business operations for your company. The Ministry doesn't look too kindly upon those who attack their own."

"This way, please. There's a good man. Their own, Malfoy?" Even though he couldn't see him, could only feel the tip of Blaise's wand grazing the hair on the nape of his neck, Draco could hear Blaise smiling. "I don't believe the Ministry cares one way or another what happens to you. Aren't you just a consultant?"

"Same difference," he mumbled. He took a sudden step, stumbled, and collapsed backward, right onto Blaise, who cried out in surprise and put both palms out to catch him. Seizing the opportunity, Draco twisted to grab the wand from Blaise's hands, intending to pin him to the ground.

Blaise recovered faster than Draco anticipated, scrabbling for purchase against his robes. A closed fist connected with Draco's jaw and he yelped when something metallic cutting through his skin. But Draco had Blaise's wand, and he held onto it, even as Blaise struggled to kick him away. The moonlight caught a glint of silver between Blaise's knuckles, and Draco dropped Blaise's wand. When he reached for it, Draco sank his teeth against closed palm, grabbing the key when Blaise let go with a cry of pain.

Draco scrambled to stand, leaping for the archway and turning the key in its lock. The door pushed open and Draco hurried inside.

"Malfoy!" Blaise snarled, launching himself onto Draco and knocking him down, both men caught off balance as they fell to the ground, which was much more even than a Quidditch pitch had any right to be. Blaise's wand was in his hands now, and he would have hexed Draco if not for the speed of Draco's own reflexes.

"Hold it," Draco warned, his own wand aimed at Blaise, who'd done the same. They stood--well, Draco half-knelt, at least--at an impasse of sorts.

"A duel, Malfoy?"

"Zabini."

"Hm?"

Though his eyes were on Blaise, Draco found it difficult to ignore the way the floor was tiled, or how the moon had disappeared behind a _ceiling_. "Where the _fuck_ are we?"

* * *

"Don't tell me you don't recognize a potions laboratory when you see one."

Draco bristled. "Of course I do!" he snapped. "That's not the question I asked."

"You asked where we were, did you not?"

"Context, Zabini," Draco growled, not at all appeased when Blaise flashed him a benevolent smile in response.

"You talk like you're in charge, Malfoy."

"I have a wand and I'm not afraid to use it."

"Will you look at that--so do I."

"Shut up." The laboratory was empty--he'd expected the archway to lead to the headquarters on the other side of the Celtic Sea, but the Zabini offices hadn't yet opened, and this was a fully functioning potions lab. Shelves pulsed with the thick magic of protective wards, and along one wall, three cauldrons encased in glass bubbled and simmered with differently colored potions. There were four wooden desks that filled the rest of the room, each side plated with the name of a Potionsmaster. A single roll of sealed parchment lay on one of the desks close to where Draco stood, and from the melted wax he made out the logo of Apothicaire de Zabini. "We're back in England, aren't we."

Blaise pursed his lips. "Yes."

"So much for that special permission." Draco sneered. "A smuggling ring, Zabini, that is--" he tipped an imaginary hat at Blaise.

"It was his idea," Blaise spat. "He told me to set it up in case the permissions couldn't get approval, but he _knew_ that was going to happen. I doubt he even tried."

Draco snorted.

"We'd already been using these to speed up imports while his proposal stalled week after week," Blaise continued. "And one day he showed up and told me his men have received reports. That he might have to pretend to investigate me."

"Zabini, do you mean to tell me--"

"Blackmail," Blaise confirmed. "The bastard had been planning it all along. It wasn't enough he earned a cut off the merchandise too, he--"

" _Expelliarmus_!" Draco smirked as Blaise flew backward, his wand rolling away until Draco Summoned it. "Personally, Zabini, if a _Gryffindor_ has made a fool out of you, I think you deserve the comeuppance."

"At least you still duel like a snake," Blaise bit out with a sharp laugh, struggling to right himself from the floor. He smoothened his robes with shaking hands. "We were beginning to worry about you, Malfoy."

"Touched as I am by your concern, you've got a lot more explaining to do now."

"I have nothing to explain."

"Where's the body?"

"What body?"

"Don't play games with me! What did you with McLaggen's body?" Draco demanded.

"I didn't kill him."

"You had every reason to."

"Doesn't mean I did." Blaise's dark eyes glinted in the dim room, and it unsettled Draco for the lack of fear and overabundance of arrogance that it held. "You're barking up the wrong tree, Malfoy."

"Yeah? Why is that?"

There was a sudden cracking sound, an uttered " _Accio_ wands!", and in the next moment Draco found himself unarmed, staring down the dangerous end of a slender cedar wand. "Back away, hands in the air, and _don't_ move, if you know what's good for you," its owner commanded.

Draco looked up, meeting the cold hard gaze of an old friend. " _Pansy?_ "

  


* * *

 _  
**  
_iii. cunning just like him_   
**   
_

 

"I thought you'd never come," Blaise said, struggling to stand. The impact of his back on the wall must have rattled him. Small mercies, Draco thought.

"I have a ball to return to," was her short response. That explained the long gown she wore and the lace that gloved her hand.

"How did you--"

"Extendable Ears, wireless edition." Blaise said, holding up a fleshy ear between his fingers. "Infused with the Protean charm, it makes for a better alternative than owling, don't you think?"

"Shut up, Blaise," Pansy told him. "I can only be in the ladies' for so long. Viktor's going to wonder."

"Toss me my wand, then," Blaise said. He caught his wand with deft fingers, and Draco found himself on the wrong end of that as well. "I'll take it from here."

"What's going on?" Pansy asked, as though the absurdity of the situation--Blaise and Draco grappling for control in a potions laboratory after hours--had just sunk in.

"He took McLaggen," Draco said.

Blaise sighed, and when he spoke it was with the condescension of a man dealing with a child. "Apparently my answer to any discussion that goes sour is to abduct a man on his birthday. I'm heartless, I know, but there are lines even I wouldn't dare cross."

"He was blackmailing you."

Blaise shook his head. "How soon you forget my preferences for conducting business. I would have simply countered with an offer myself."

"You had nothing on him."

"I would have had, soon enough."

"Quiet," Pansy ordered the both of them, waving her wand to threaten them both. Draco, wandless, had no choice but to do as she said. She turned to him. "You think he took Cormac?"

"He has a motive--"

"And an alibi," Pansy told him.

"What?"

Blaise shook his head. "Pans--"

Pansy never took her gaze off Draco. "Is this why you called me here?"

"Actually, no, I was hoping you just would disarm him," Blaise said. "I'll take care of the rest myself."

"And how did you plan to do that?" Pansy asked. "By dumping his body in the Thames?"

"No, of course not. We're much closer to the sea."

"Blaise."

Draco watched Blaise's shoulders give, saw him sigh before casting Draco a long look. "He might still turn me in," he said. "Wouldn't you?"

" _What_ is going on?" Draco asked.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Blaise said with a smirk at the same time Pansy blurted out, "He was with me."

Draco was repeating himself too much that night. "What?"

"Pans."

Pansy shrugged, her lower lip jutting out in a pout, the shadows hiding her eyes from Draco's view. "Are my words good enough, or do you need more proof?"

"You were with _him_?" Draco asked, speaking the first words that came to mind. "Aren't you married to Krum?"

It was not the best thing to have said. She glared at him, and for a moment he feared he would meet his end there anyway. "You think I don't know that, Draco?"

"That wasn't what I meant--"

"We don't need to explain, least of all to him," Blaise cut in.

"The Golden Snitch?"

"Olga told me about that," Blaise said, crossing his arms. "But yes. I was with her then, as I was with her after that spat with Cormac."

"You could have hired someone. You could have paid someone else to do it."

"Someone from the party?" Blaise asked. "How many outsiders would have gotten in with all of the McLaggens' wards? How many wizards there would I have trusted with the deed?"

"Besides, it isn't Blaise's style." Pansy turned to Draco. Her features had softened now, the hardness that was there giving way to pleading. "No one can know."

Draco frowned. He didn't trust them on their word, but Pansy seemed earnest enough. There might have been more at stake if she were lying--the Parkinsons, his mother had told him once, fled the country after the war and married Pansy off as soon as they could to recoup their losses. Viktor Krum had been the best possible match both in wealth and in standing, having worked with the Order before the war ended. And if rumors were to be believed, the Krums weren't the sort to take affairs with a grain of salt either.

Pansy bit her lip. "Please, Draco."

"Fine," he said, and both Pansy's and Blaise's faces visibly eased. They wouldn't like what he was about to say next, though: "But I'll need your memories."

* * *

Harry's face was thoughtful, scrunched in the way it usually was whenever he was going over something in his head. His brow was furrowed and his arms were crossed across his chest. He leaned back against his seat, feet propped up on what empty surface of his desk was available, and his eyes were on Draco.

"And the alibi?"

"Solid," Draco said. "Trust me, I had a watch handy. An hour's worth of unadulterated pleasure, as far away from McLaggen's study as possible." He shuddered. He'd tried hard not to look, but he also had to make sure they never moved from the spot either--that had been a torturous moment in the Pensieve. "You can see for yourself, but I'll need to return the memory today. I promised them no one else would see."

"You didn't need to promise them anything."

"Least I could do. Anyway, they heard the windows break." Unfortunately that had been well outside the realm of the memory--he couldn't see, from where they were, who had fled the manor.

Harry nodded. "So we're back to where we started."

"Apparently."

"I'm not quite convinced he wouldn't have paid anyone to do it for him," Harry admitted.

"No, but he did let me go," Draco said. "Either he's confident about what we'd find or he's confident we won't find anything at all."

"He might have let you go to lull you into trusting him." Harry glanced at him. "Isn't that how you'd usually do things?"

"You can have your men tail him if it makes you feel better. We still need to find whoever had been in the room with him," Draco said. "And _then_ we can decide. When are we supposed to hear about that champagne glass?"

"Next week, Mysteries said. They're still backlogged with other cases."

"Of course they are." Draco glanced at his watch. "It's half past noon, anyway. What say we take a break for lunch?"

* * *

"The queue is there for a reason," Henry Stebbins grumbled under his breath. Portly, balding, blurred around the edges with curves where hard lines ought to be, he didn't look the sort to be an Unspeakable, but as a rule every government department had to have their bureaucrat, and Mysteries' happened to be Stebbins.

They'd found him by the fountain, enjoying a turkey-and-swiss sandwich with a napkin tucked against the collar of his robes, speaking in earnest with a fellow Unspeakable about the new memo system the Ministry was trying out. Draco hadn't told Harry they were looking for anyone at all until he walked up to the man and asked if he was in charge of handling the requests to Mysteries.

Stebbins had puffed his chest out with pride and said that yes, indeed, he was.

"Good," Draco had said, and before anyone could protest, he had Stebbins by the elbow and was steering him toward the Department of Mysteries offices.

"We just want to know how it's coming along," Harry said.

"The Unspeakables have been swamped," Stebbins sniffed. He took out a handkerchief from a pocket and wiped his forehead and the back of his neck with it. "There are many other things needing our attention--"

"More than McLaggen's disappearance?"

Stebbins gave Draco a baleful look. "We cannot succumb to biased prioritizations," he said stiffly.

They reached the department lobby, an imposing room with black glass for walls and unbreakable mirrors for tiles. Stebbins walked towards a door, hesitating for a moment. He turned to both men. "This is an Unspeakable-only room."

Draco shrugged. "We'll wait out here," he said, picking up a crystal ball from the receptionist's desk.

"Don't. Touch. Anything!" Stebbins said, the door slamming shut behind him.

"What if they're not done yet?" Harry asked once Stebbins was out of earshot. "He's not going to speed the process up for us."

"I doubt he even has anything at all to do with the testing anyway," Draco told him, setting the crystal ball back down. It rolled a little to the edge before he caught it. "But I wouldn't be surprised if the only thing left to do was file the paperwork to send the results to your department."

"Oi." Stebbins popped his head out from a small square hole in the ceiling. "The MLE has too many requests in here," he said, unflapped by the location of his head in relation to the lobby. "Do you remember the case number you filed it under?"

"No. How am I supposed to know? It's the McLaggen file, champagne glass," Harry said.

Stebbins disappeared back inside, muttering more unflattering things about the MLE under his breath.

"Mysteries," Draco sighed. "I bet he did that just to show off."

"It's incomplete," Stebbins told them, emerging from the right side of the room a few minutes later. "Just as I told you."

Harry groaned.

"Wait," Draco said. "What does it say on the file?"

Stebbins frowned. "Hang on," he sighed. "I'll be right back."

"He didn't even read it," Harry said, shaking his head in disbelief. "It was there, and it was what we wanted, and all he could look at was whether it was completed or not."

The third time Stebbins emerged, it was finally with substantial information. "They're conducting final tests," he explained. "They found a sample of the drinker in the glass, but it wasn't enough for the usual polyjuice review, which is why it's taking this long to do. They're trying to piece together as much as they can."

"To do what?"

"To see if they can match her with anyone they have in the database of previous Azkaban--"

"Her?"

Stebbins blinked. "Hm?"

"You said they wanted to match her," Draco repeated. "Not him?"

"No, not him," Stebbins said, frowning in confusion. "The drinker was female."

* * *

Draco didn't consider this being back to square one, but truth be told he didn't feel quite at ease pursuing this new lead either.

"It could be any woman," Harry had said. "She could have been there for any number of reasons."

Yet somehow Draco wasn't sure that the implications were more innocent than his first thoughts. He hated admitting he relied on so-called gut instinct, least of all when there was such scarcity for fact, but he couldn't help thinking McLaggen had little reason to conduct business the night of his birthday party.

It shouldn't matter either--it wasn't as though this would be the first case of infidelity he'd come across. But whoever McLaggen had been with that night, and for whatever reason, he knew he had only one place to start looking.

"So what are you looking for, exactly?" Astoria asked. He hadn't owled ahead to let her know he was coming. Pinky had greeted him at the door, and Astoria walked in a few minutes later, in a simple pale green dress that hugged the curve of her hips and a hasty bun that nestled against the nape of her neck. He'd mumbled an excuse--a review of the scene, he'd said--and she'd given him a curious look before leading him to McLaggen's study.

He wondered if she sensed his unease. "I'm just looking over the study again, see if we missed anything the first time," he said. The heels of his feet echoed against the wooden floor of the room. It seemed the house elf had cleaned it up since last he saw it: the desk was upright, the windows replaced, the rug and upholstery thrown out or replaced.

"Looking for what?" Astoria asked. "What happened in France? You never owled."

"Dead end," Draco told her.

"So what brought you back here?" She'd positioned herself between him and the desk. "What's going on? And don't say you can't tell me until you know for certain--I do have a right to know."

Draco sighed. "Your husband," he said. "Did he have female business associates?"

Astoria frowned. "Not that I'm aware."

"None at all?"

"He prefers to do business with wizards, in politics or otherwise," Astoria admitted. "He's... traditional. Why does that matter?"

"I don't know if Potter's told you, but apart from the window, we found two different kinds of broken glass in his study," Draco told her. "One from the scotch he was drinking, and another from a glass of champagne. It established that someone else had been in the room with him and that whoever had taken him was likely someone he knew."

Astoria nodded. "Is this what you went to France for?"

"Yes and no," Draco said. It was doubtful that a woman might have had the ability to overcome McLaggen--and there had been proof of a struggle that night--but regardless of culpability, whoever had been with him that night needed to be found. "The MLE sent the glass of champagne to the Department of Mysteries for testing. They told us they were still trying to find a way to identify the drinker, but they were certain it had been a witch in the room with your husband that night."

If Draco had any concerns, Astoria vindicated them all. She froze, her eyes widening and the line of her jaw clenching in a hard line.

"We don't know what it means yet," Draco said, finding himself quick to try and soften the implication of what he'd told her.

"Spare me," she said, turning away from him to settle herself on the couch with a soft sigh. "They wrote about him once, did you know? In The Daily Prophet. Blind item, of course; they'd never dare give names."

He had heard, in fact--it was what made it difficult to accept any other explanation. His mother often kept track of that sort of gossip, and though she'd never admit it in public, she never shied of sharing her theories with Draco. Small perk of being Narcissa Malfoy's only friend. "I didn't know," he lied.

"Everybody else did," she said. "He tried his best to be discreet, but it was for his career's sake, not mine."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be," she murmured. "My mother warned me not to expect much of marriage. We're dear friends, Cormac and I, and the arrangement worked for both of us--" She hesitated, chewing on her bottom lip for a moment, as though considering her next words. "But I suppose it wounds the pride a little, doesn't it, to know you've been found lacking?"

In retrospect, Draco should have noticed sooner. Astoria had been worried about her husband, yes. She'd made sure she was aware of any progress made, demanding the most out of the squad assigned to the case, but she never wavered between the hysteria of loss and blind hope the way most would have. She'd gone through the process with the composure of someone fulfilling her duties, grieving out of obligation and not much else. He sat beside her and gingerly tapped the back of her hand, which she'd folded across her lap. It seemed the right thing to do.

"This woman," she spoke again, turning to face him. "Do you think she took him?"

"We're not sure," Draco said. "It seems improbable for her to have overpowered someone of your husband's size, which is why we never even thought to look for a witch."

"You haven't met my husband drunk, have you." Astoria laughed, though there was nothing cheerful in her laughter. "Whiskey had always been his weakness. Two glasses, and you could convince him to do anything. Merlin, _he_ could convince himself to do anything."

"I see." Draco frowned. "We don't know if she was there the moment he disappeared, but we would like to know who she is. If she had been, and if your husband was indeed under the influence, then--"

"Do you think she had someone else with her?" Astoria asked again. "Someone who helped take him? She could have found a way for them to get inside--"

"Astoria--"

"Was she at the party too?" she asked, a hint of worry lining the whisper of her words. "But who could it have been?"

" _Astoria_." He squeezed her hand by instinct, a subconscious reaction meant to soothe her. He was surprised at how slender it was compared to his, how soft it felt in his palm. Her gaze flickered to their entwined hands before she looked up at him. He pulled his hand away, a few seconds too late, and averted his gaze as he stood, straightening the non-existent wrinkles on his robes. "I thought I might look in his study again," he said. "He might have written something in the journal."

"Of course," she said, clearing her throat as she stood as well. Her footsteps receded from him. "Feel free to look around. I'll check with Pinky--get some coffee--"

"It's all right, I won't be here long," Draco said, looking up to apologize, but she had already fled. He winced. Served him right, really, to have acted like a blistering teenaged boy. Astoria needed comfort, yes, but _Merlin_. He didn't have to lay it on thick, did he? He always knew working with Potter would be the end of him, but he never realized it would be from inheriting the git's damned hero complex.

He shook his head, determined to forget about the embarrassment of the evening. McLaggen's desk had been tidied, his journal tucked away in a corner drawer. It had been filled with a few letters, none of which had amounted to much, and the gold coin he'd palmed out of whim. He never did figure out what to do with the coin--it certainly hadn't been real gold, but the goblins at Gringotts hadn't been able to tell him what it was. He took it out from a hidden pocket in his robes, studying the odd symbols and shapeless curves that were engraved on its sides.

"Ah well," he muttered. "Best return you." He flipped the coin, watching it spin in the air. It caught the light from the lamp overhead, and Draco blinked as it clattered with a tinny thunk on the desk, rolling to a stop by the journal. He picked it up again, made sure to position it so the top half had the symbols and the lower showed the lines. He flipped it again, and this time, with the coin in a continuous spin, the image revealed was clearer. In a semi-circle on the top half, a series of numbers. In the middle, the silhouette of a flower.

Draco had seen it before. He couldn't count the number of times he'd watched Blaise Zabini duck beneath a wooden awning that had the exact same image etched onto it.

It was difficult not to remember--the image was a perfect symbol for its name: The Black Orchid.

* * *

Draco had scarcely seated himself in the booth--black leather, plush cushions, a table of rich mahogany, indulgent bordering on opulent--when Theodore Nott's figure cast a shadow over what dim light he had on him.

"That was fast," he remarked, tone more casual than he felt. In truth, he'd hoped he'd have time for a glass of water, something cool to counter the dryness of his throat, something solid to keep his hands busy with, something to look at that wasn't Theodore's hard gaze.

"You need to be a member to enter," Theodore said. "What did you tell Ilsa?"

"As it happens," he said, forcing a smile on his face. "I came into a membership. Funny how that works."

"Whose?" Theodore asked before shaking his head, the realization hitting at last. "Never mind, I think I know." His shoulders lost the stiffness they held and his eyes flickered towards Draco as he slid into the seat across him. "Has Dima taken your order yet?"

"It's fine; I won't be here for long."

Theodore beckoned Dima to their table. "Scotch on the rocks for the two of us, please, and the spring sampler?" He turned to Draco. "The chef is trying out truffled chips--insisting it be added, actually--but I haven't decided if I like how it's turning it out. You can tell me what you think."

Draco blinked. "Of course," he said. "You know what I'm here for?"

"Business, am I correct?" Theodore asked. "The Prophet's been wary of you handling the case, but they've been harder on the MLE."

"Don't tell me you've given in to reading that drivel."

"It's different when viewed as entertainment instead of fact," Theodore said. "Even more attractive as an investment. The incredible garbage wizards will eat up is second only to the extortionate prices they will pay for it."

"You own a bit of The Prophet now too?"

"Minority share, that's all," Theodore said, but it was a long way up from the year he spent in Azkaban after the war--a year spent there thanks in large part to Draco's own testimony. It may not have been the death knell to what was left of the Notts' wealth--Theodore had lost plenty in the first few years since his return, restoring a manor that had been looted and pillaged in the absence of its only tenant, and living off what little money remained when companies refused his galleons or his services--but it had signaled the end of something regardless.

This was the first time Draco had spoken to him since then. He grappled for polite conversation and neutral topics, but he'd had an easier time responding to Blaise's anger. Theodore's distance was a different matter altogether. He couldn't help it. Where he'd always disliked Blaise, Theodore was the closest he'd had to a friend. When their drinks arrived he gulped a large dose of liquid courage. "Theodore," he started to say, "for what it's worth--"

"Save it," Theodore said with a shake of his head. "You didn't come here for that."

"I am sorry, anyway."

Theodore's lips drew a thin line, his eyes flashing with something fierce for a moment before it receded behind the usual cool of his blue gaze. "Past is past," he intoned, neither an acknowledgment nor an absolution. "You're here for business."

Draco nodded. "Yes," he said. "You've done a fine job with the place."

"We have passable food and mediocre entertainment--" Here Theodore nodded at a poster of a scantily clad chorus of witches, framed and hung on the wall-- "But you'd be surprised at what people will pay for the guarantee of privacy, and what they'll ignore to get it."

"Privacy?"

"Surprisingly difficult to come by, for some of our clients."

"I've seen Zabini entertain here."

"As he should; he owns half the shares."

Draco raised an eyebrow. "Is there anything the Zabinis don't own?" he asked.

"You'll be hard pressed to find it," Theodore said.

"And McLaggen?"

"What about him?"

"He's a member of the club, then?"

Theodore shrugged. "I don't keep records of members. I don't know them off the top of my head."

"Surely you have some way of tracking them."

"You found the coin and you clearly have strong enough proof that it's his," Theodore said. "What else do you want from me?"

Draco frowned. "I want to know who he's been meeting with here. I want to know who he's been seen with."

Theodore cocked his head. "Have you listened to anything I've said? I'm not at liberty to say."

"Excuse me?"

Their drinks arrived then, and Theodore took the moment to thank Dima before he raised his glass in toast. "To old friends?" he said, but Draco couldn't say there wasn't a smidge of mockery in the gesture.

"Theodore, this is an MLE case. You could be held in contempt for refusing to cooperate. You could be sent back--"

"Please do," he said. "I've been to Azkaban--it isn't much to fear anymore without the dementors, and I'll likely come back all the richer for it."

"You can't be serious."

"Let me spell out the economics for you: I could sell you my clients for nothing but walk free, or say nothing and be arrested but prove to my clients that no matter what happens, I keep their secrets. Do you have any idea how much mileage that gives us? Why should we work with the MLE when the galleons come from somebody else?" Theodore met Draco's eyes, and asked his next question with an even tone. "What loyalty do I owe you?"

"None," Draco said, unable to muster any other form of protest. He sat back. Theodore still held his gaze, and where earlier his eyes had curbed any kind of emotion, now they openly flashed with anger. Draco felt a strange sensation wash over him--guilt, yes, and plenty of remorse as well--but there was something else as well that loosened the constriction at the back of his throat and lungs. It was only when Theodore looked away that he realized it had been relief, of all things. "You owe me nothing."

* * *

"Another dead end," Draco groused. He stabbed at the lettuce leaves in his salad, though he speared a plump cherry tomato instead. He bit into it, somewhat satisfied when its juices filled his mouth.

"Not quite a dead end, though, just an unwilling--what's the term?--person of interest." Astoria sat across him, buttering her bread. "Theodore's been known to hold a grudge or two, and you _did_ send him to Azkaban."

"Now's not the time for guilting," Draco mumbled. He hadn't intended to rant to Astoria, but he'd asked to meet her and as it happened, she was the first person he saw after his visit to The Black Orchid. "Not my fault he told me where his father kept his rubbish."

"In confidence, in fourth year, because he wanted to impress you." At the baffled look Draco gave her, Astoria smiled. "Tracey," she explained with a delicate shrug. "She's besotted with the man, almost as much as he is with her. Someday I might just push one of them onto the other's lips, but not until Christmas Eve next year. I have ten galleons riding on that date, and Pansy's betting it's sooner than that."

"Oh."

"But now we know Cormac spent time there," Astoria said. "If you can't talk to Theodore himself, perhaps you can talk to his staff?"

"I already tried," Draco admitted. "Even tried to bribe them."

"You must be on the right track," Astoria murmured. "Maybe one of them knows what happened."

Draco frowned. "Yeah," he said. A plan was beginning to form in his head. He knew a warlock in Knockturn Alley who used to be a Potionsmaster before a stint in Azkaban that never quite cleared his name...

"What are you planning to do?" Astoria asked, voice piercing through his thoughts as though she could see right through them. She peered at him, curious, and Draco shook his head.

"Alternatives," was all he would say. He glanced at her purse, which had the gnarly edge of a familiar leather-bound book peeking out. "I didn't ask you here to complain about Theodore Nott."

"Could have fooled me." Astoria laughed when Draco started to protest and silenced him by drawing out the journal. "What did you want to look at this for?"

"I was hoping to see something I may have missed the first time," he said, flipping through the pages as easily as any other book--he'd taken out the wards and was much happier for it. "Am I still not allowed to take this home with me?"

"Seeing the way you work, I'm not quite sure I trust you to keep the journal intact."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You make a mess!" Astoria said, laughing. "Last time I had you in the guest study you--" she started ticking items off her fingers-- "smudged ink on the oak grain surface, left crumpled up parchment _around_ the bin and not _in_ it, re-organized my novels--"

"They weren't alphabetical," Draco protested. "And I take care of borrowed items."

She narrowed her eyes. "The potion you use for Amos," she said. "Where do you make it?"

"At home?"

"In a different area from where you'd study the journal?"

Draco hesitated.

"So you'll spill who knows what on it too!"

"Will not!" Draco denied.

"I rest my case," she said anyway. "You can read that here, if you like." She glanced around the bistro. "Let's see you try to make a mess in such a nice place."

"That sounds almost like a dare," Draco said, and when she turned to look at him, the corner of her lips quirked up. He returned the smirk, and for a fleeting moment allowed himself to pretend they weren't at lunch for business, that they were seated there just for the sake of each other's company--

Their main course came then, just in time to break Draco out of his thoughts, and a good ten minutes later than it should have arrived though neither minded. Astoria twirled the angel hair in her fork, Draco pierced pieces of penne with his as he read.

"Your mother's hosting another dinner this Saturday," Astoria said, breaking the silence when it started to make both of them a little restless. "My mother told me she's been invited."

"Is she?" It had been the only topic of conversation between him and his mother the last few times they've spoken. Narcissa spent half the conversation elated, the other half fretting about the menu, or the state of the manor, or what Lucius might say in front of company. "She hasn't mentioned."

"You wouldn't be there, then?" Astoria asked. "Mother thought it was so Miranda could ask you about the investigation. I told her you wouldn't be able to say much more than what you've already told me, but they seem determined to know everything."

Narcissa had not told Draco about _that_. "What?"

"I thought I'd let you know."

Draco sighed. "She hasn't told me to come, but I'll find an excuse not to show up if she does." He wrinkled his nose, dreading the fire-call that would entail. He'd cross the bridge when he reached it. There were other things needing his attention at the moment, and he nodded towards the journal before asking Astoria, "Have you gone through this in detail?"

"I haven't studied it, no, but I've picked it up and looked a few times," she told him. "I always think I'd find something new that I haven't seen before, but it all blurs together for me."

Draco nodded. "I think--" he started to say, flipping the journal over so that Astoria could see them too. "I thought these were just cloud doodles, at first, a way to track the weather forecast or something." His fingers were pointing at a small scribble. He turned the page and showed her another cloud. "But see how they always seemed to be at the upper right side of the date? And there's never any other kind of weather but cloudy?"

Astoria nodded, fingers light on the pages and a thoughtful look on her face. "So what is it?"

"What if these weren't clouds?" Draco asked. "What if he'd been trying to draw orchids?"

* * *

The alley stank of garbage and rats, spoiled meat and the dankness of wet earth. It was quiet but for the scuffling of feet and the creaking of a door, dark save for the small light off the burning end of a cigarette, illuminating the gaunt lines of the young man who lit it.

He never saw Draco coming, never heard the whisper of a Stunning spell.

"Sorry about that. Believe me, it's nothing personal," Draco told him. The body pitched forward, unconscious, slacking just before it hit the floor. Draco hooked his arms under the man's armpits and dragged him to a dark corner before he threw a large black canvas over him.

Tonight he was determined to find out what happened to Cormac McLaggen inside The Black Orchid.

He plucked a strand of hair from the unconscious man and dropped it into a thin flask that he kept in his back pocket. The potion had cost a handful of galleons and a furtive trip down Knockturn Alley, and it took only a few seconds before the last ingredient did its work. The scentless mixture wafted with a heady, musky fragrance, like grass after a heavy rain. It wasn't bad as far as essences go; Draco has had much worse. He tipped his head back and downed a mouthful.

The transformation was not without the normal discomfort that came when old skin shifted and molded itself to fit a new body. His flesh shrank, clinging to longer bones. He winced as his jaw tightened and his teeth moved--that was always the worst part. He shook his head, and a shock of long black hair--the last part of the body to change--fell over his eyes. Satisfied, he tucked the offending locks behind his ears and headed back to the lounge.

"Dima! What took you so long?"

He glanced at the woman--long wavy blonde hair, tight skirt, stockinged legs--who accosted him. Ilsa, he thought. She'd sat him at the lounge. "Needed a break," he said.

Ilsa frowned. "What's wrong with your voice?"

Crap. He shook his head. "Coming down with something."

"Well, you better hurry. You're late; Caterina's already arrived."

Draco glanced around. The lounge, for all that it was meant to be some popular establishment for a secret few, was practically empty. There were one or two staff members, Ilsa included, and only three customers. Draco wasn't sure which of them was Caterina, or why she had to be served by Dima in particular.

"Where are you going?" Ilsa grabbed him by the arm and dragged him to a wall panel that swung open at once. "Here," she said, shoving him in and shutting the door behind him.

Draco blinked. He found himself at the end of a long and narrow hallway lined with wood paneling and muted wallpaper. There were rows of closed doors on both sides, a soft classical tune that played in the background somewhere, and absolute silence otherwise. There was no furniture except for a table that carried a vase of various blooms and a candelabra.

"Dima!" someone whispered.

Draco looked up. There was another woman at the other end of the hallway who was walking toward him. She was older, much older than anyone Draco had ever seen that night, and also more clothed. Her gray hair was tied in a bun and while rather portly, she moved with the severity and comportment of a headmistress. She waved him over.

"Caterina?" Draco guessed as he neared her.

"In there," the woman said, nodding at the door to her left. When Draco reached out to open the door, her eyes widened. "What are you doing?"

"I'm late," Draco began to protest--late for what, he wasn't sure--but the woman instead opened a hidden panel on the wall and grabbed a ready vial of thick brown mud from among a row of similar vials. Another panel opened, releasing a gust of arctic cold air, and from that she took out a small tube of what looked like ice.

" _Fundum_ ," she whispered, and the tube overflowed with melting ice. She took out a strand of hair that had been frozen in the tube, and dropped it into the concoction Draco was holding. It bubbled for a moment before turning into a shade of navy blue, and Draco caught a whiff of the ocean just before she nodded for him to drink in.

For the second time that night, Draco had to undergo an uncomfortable transition. This time, he expanded. His stomach began to bulge, he felt his nose and arms and feet grow, and his chin itched with the sudden spurt of facial hair.

"That will do," the woman said to herself. "You've made her wait long enough. Go in."

Draco hesitated, gripped with the sinking sensation of knowing what was about to happen, and not certain he knew what to do to avoid it. He took a deep breath and turned the knob.

"You're late, mon amour," a low, melodious voice drawled.

He was in a private suite illuminated in fuschia tones. To his left was a large mirror and dressing table. To his right, a chaise lounge, over which a few articles of clothing were draped. And dead front and center, a circular bed of thick satin and a lingeried woman who lay provocatively atop it--cleavage peeking through black lace and silk garters, thighs splayed over red sheets, lips puckered to a sultry pout. It would be any red-blooded man's fantasy, if not for the woman resembling Umbridge more than Delacour.

"Marc?"

"Uh. Sorry," Draco squeaked. He glanced back at the door, wondering if the woman would be waiting outside, and what excuse he could make to leave.

"My darling, is something the matter?" Caterina asked.

"No, of course not. Not at all." He'd gone this far. He'd found out this much. It was enough for now, more than anything that he could have ever hoped to uncover in one night's work. It would be easier to find out what McLaggen had done, now that he had _this_ on Nott. But he needed a way out, and it had to be within the hour he had left, with no one any wiser. "You look beautiful tonight."

At this, Caterina smiled. "I knew you would come back for me," she murmured. "I knew you would see through that vile witch and return to me."

"Of course. How could I not?"

"Come here, then," Caterina purred. "Show me how much you missed me."

"No," Draco said, the words out of his mouth before he could stop himself.

Caterina frowned. "No?" she echoed. She sat up, drawing her blankets to her chest. "Dima, what is wrong with you tonight?"

 _Fuck._ "Nothing," Draco quickly denied, his mind on overdrive as it scrambled to stall the inevitable. "I was thinking perhaps tonight we can try something new, that's all."

Caterina's eyes narrowed. "Oh?" she asked anyway.

"Yes," Draco said. "I was thinking tonight, maybe I should watch?"

Caterina smirked. "You naughty boy. Do you want me to put on a show for you?"

"If you would please." Draco's gaze fell upon a silken scarf, part of the outfit he presumed Caterina had discarded in favor of a night with Marc, whoever that was. "And if you'd let me, I have an idea..."

"Do tell."

Draco took the scarf and crawled onto bed. He nearly recoiled at the strength of her perfume. "Do you trust me?" he asked.

"Not at all," Caterina said. " _Impedimenta_!"

Draco did not have time to react. He was thrown back from the bed, body colliding with the wall at the other end of the room with a sickening thud. He groaned, and before he could attempt to get up Caterina had already cast Incarcerous on him.

"Who are you?" she demanded, wand pointed in his direction as she gathered her clothes about her. "What did you do with Dima?"

Draco shook his head. "I'm Dima."

"You would never have answered to Dima if you were. You would never have tried to play games." Caterina raised her wand, uttered another spell that emitted a loud, wailing noise, and within moments Theodore Nott strolled in.

"Caterina, what are you doing with my employee?" he asked after taking one look at Draco's prone form.

"He's an impostor."

"Is he? Let's see, shall we?" Theodore knelt beside Draco, tipping his chin up and studying him. He took out a small bottle from his pocket, unstoppering it and tipping its contents into Draco's mouth. Draco attempted to move away, to spit the potion back out, but Theodore pinched his nose and he choked on it instead.

"Who _is_ he?" Caterina gasped when Draco morphed back to his true form.

"That isn't important. Caterina, I am very sorry that this happened. Trust me when I say we will be taking care of this right away." Theodore turned to Draco and, without so much as a word or a flicker of acknowledgment in his gaze, yanked him by the arm and dragged him out of the room.

"What do you think you're doing?" Theodore hissed, his fingers digging into the flesh of Draco's arm.

"What do _you_?" Draco asked. "The Ministry would lock you up for this, are you--"

"I should Obliviate you right now. I should replace your memory."

"And have the rest of the MLE knocking down your door?" Draco asked. "They know I'm here. They know what I'm doing. They'll come after you if I don't return."

"Liar."

Draco clenched his jaw, eyes resolute as he stared Theodore down. "Do you want to risk it?" he asked.

Theodore looked like he wanted nothing more but to punch Draco then and there, but luckily for Draco, Theodore was a more patient man. "What do you want?"

"You know exactly what I want."

"Fine," he bit out. "But with a few conditions."

* * *

He'd seen her before, but only in passing. Blonde hair, red lips, stockings and heels. When Theodore Nott brought Ilsa to him, he was surprised to find she was less the generic fantasy and more a nervous girl who fidgeted with her fingers and compulsively braided and unbraided her hair--bewitched blonde, if the dark lines of her eyebrows were anything to go by--to fend off the anxiety of talking to authority. She'd discarded her heels in favor of clunky black shoes that looked more suitable for school. Her lipstick had faded to the natural shade of her lips and her glamor charms were beginning to disappear as well. In the initial silence of their meeting she pulled out a hair tie, gathering her hair up in a loose bun on top of her head and leaving it there. Curious light green eyes looked up at Draco, until at last he spoke.

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-one?" her reply was whispered, but her voice was husky and tinted with an accent that told Draco English was not her native language.

"How old are you really?"

Ilsa glanced around, but Theodore had gone to recover Dima from where he was unconscious behind The Black Orchid, and there were still clients left to--well, the other girls were looking after them. They were alone. "Nineteen."

"How long have you been working here?"

"One year."

Her hand kept glancing up the bottom of her bun, but without her hair to toy with, her hands were left restless. She folded them across her lap, but they clenched and fisted and smoothened until even Draco could not stand the tics any longer. "You're not in trouble, if that's what you're worried about," he said. "I only want to ask a few questions."

She nodded, though she looked no less comforted.

"You knew Cormac McLaggen?" Draco asked.

If she'd looked fretful before, it was nothing compared to the panic in her words now. "I know nothing," she pleaded, wringing her hands against her skirt. "You cannot send me to Azkaban because there is no one else to blame, Sasha says--"

"Calm down," Draco said, palm raised to quiet her before she grew hysterical. "No one's going to Azkaban for anything they didn't do." That was true enough. "All I want to know is what you know."

"I am a secret," she said. "Mr. Nott--"

"He's agreed to have you speak with me," Draco told her. "He says there's no harm in letting me talk to his wait staff."

She nodded, understanding the meaning behind the words he did not say. Should her testimony ever be needed, it would be given as an employee of the lounge and not the brothel. Draco's silence for Theodore's cooperation, that had been the deal. Considering the inches that had, just earlier, separated Draco's face from Theodore's wand, it was a deal he was only too happy to make.

"So you'll tell me about Cormac?"

"He was customer," Ilsa said, speaking in soft, halting tones. "At first he had many... servers."

"How often did he visit?"

"Once a week, maybe every other." Ilsa shook her head. "I do not remember."

"And then?"

"And then I serve him."

Draco caught her gaze and gave her what he hoped was a look of encouragement. "Go on."

"He asks for me all the time, after," she said. "He gives me gifts."

"Did you see him outside The Black Orchid?"

"No, we are not allowed."

"I will not tell Theodore if you did," Draco assured her. "Did Cormac ever ask to see you outside of work?"

Ilsa shook her head, insistent. "Black Orchid only," she said.

"Do you remember the night he went missing?"

"I read about it in paper." Ilsa was still playing with her hands, smoothing out wrinkles that nobody could see on her skirt. "But it wasn't me, I was working, Anca will tell you. She keeps the log."

A log was nothing but a piece of paper, and what use is a memory in a place full of polyjuicers? Draco wasn't sure he trusted Ilsa on her word alone, but while it seemed natural to her profession, she did not look like a woman who could weave lies to her advantage. "You will show me where Anca keeps these logs, then?" he asked.

"Yes," she said. "Yes, I will."

"Thank you. When you were together, did Cormac mention anything outside of--other than what you do?" Draco asked. "Anything about men he worked with, things he was planning to do, anything like that?"

Ilsa shook her head. "He does not talk much," she said, frowning. "When he does, he likes to say--"

Draco caught the hesitation in her voice, the soft pause of thought that stopped her from speaking. "Yes?"

"Cormac--" Ilsa sighed. "He likes to talk big. Anca says it's because he's politician. He makes a lot of promises, but Anca says he only keeps half of them."

"Sounds about right," Draco muttered. He quirked an eyebrow at Ilsa, curious. "What promises did he make, Ilsa?"

* * *

"I hope, Harry, that you know what you're doing."

"You can trust me, sir."

"Of that I have no doubt. It's Draco Malfoy I'm not so sure about."

"Understood. He's got his own way of working, but--"

"But he works for us," Kingsley Shacklebolt said, his voice a calm baritone that by its very timbre commanded authority. "We aren't just trying to discover what happened to Cormac McLaggen. Considering his position, we need to be delicate in the way we conduct our investigation."

"Yes, sir. We're doing what we can."

"I know you are, but like I said, I'm not so sure about Malfoy. Not everyone trusts him as you do."

Harry's response came after a long pause. "He's paid his dues."

"Sometimes wounds take more than just a few years to heal. We lost many good men and women in that war."

"I know, sir. I hear that a lot."

"Just make sure you keep an eye out on him," Shacklebolt said. "But I've kept you enough. If there's nothing else to talk about, I'll be on my way."

"All right. Thanks for stopping by, sir."

There was a rustling--perhaps a billowing of the regal robes that Shacklebolt favored so much--and then heavy footsteps headed for the door. Draco had just enough time to scramble a few steps back and position himself mid-step before the door to Harry's office swung open.

"Minister!" he greeted, an extra dose of sunshine infused into the cheer of his voice. "Lovely surprise seeing you here."

"Mr. Malfoy," Shacklebolt said coolly. He'd brought Lucius to Azkaban twice, first after that skirmish in the Department of Mysteries and then again after the Battle at Hogwarts. Draco suspected Shacklebolt wasn't happy about having Lucius walk out both times.

"Billow away, sir," Draco mumbled under his breath as Shacklebolt swept past him, a gathering of fine silks and bright fabric swishing in his wake. He turned to Harry and caught the look on his face. "What?"

"How long were you outside for?"

"Not long at all. Why? Did I miss anything of great importance?"

"How long?"

Draco thought a half-shrug was an eloquent enough answer. "Long enough," he admitted when he sensed Harry was not about to drop the subject anytime soon.

Harry sighed. "He's under a lot of pressure too," he said. "Magical Cooperation can't decide what to do in McLaggen's absence and the Ministry's released next to no information to the public. He's answerable to them too."

"He's answerable to no one; he's the bloody Minister!"

"You'd be surprised," Harry said. "Anyway, it's just words."

"I know that," Draco said, narrowing his eyes when he realized what Harry was trying to do. "I'm a grown man, Potter. No need to worry about me."

"Wasn't worrying--"

"Then let's talk about something else, shall we?"

"Yeah, of course. Is that what you came in here for?" Harry asked. "I tried to call but you didn't answer your fireplace."

Draco shrugged. "I wasn't home," he said. "How long are you here for?"

"Not very long," Harry told him, giving him a curious look that Draco ignored. "I've got a couple of reports left to file."

"You wouldn't mind if I nipped in and took a look in the Pensieve then, would you?" Draco asked.

"Of course. Whose memory did you get?"

"No one's," Draco lied. "I thought I'd take some time to review a few things, that's all."

* * *

Ilsa was a sweet girl, Draco had thought. She was nervous and quiet, and when he asked her questions she seemed close to crying many times. She looked innocent, by all accounts, yet when Draco secluded himself in a corner of her last memory with McLaggen he started to doubt just how much of the Ilsa he saw had been an act, and how much of the real her he had really been speaking with.

He'd asked for examples of what McLaggen had told her, snippets of what she remembered from their time together, hoping that he might be able to cull from McLaggen's own mouth what may have been lost in the nuances of Ilsa's interpretation. Unfortunately she had misunderstood the request, and instead of giving Draco a strand of the last night she spent with her client, she gave him _all_ of it.

Closed doors remained closed within memories; objects remained stationary and unmovable by the intruders that examined them. Draco had cringed when he realized, had run for the corner farthest from the pair as McLaggen strode in like a stallion about to mount his mare, throwing Ilsa to the bed and laughing like a conquering king.

Ilsa did not have to polyjuice into anybody, as the girls and boys of The Black Orchid did. She'd put on a few glamor charms to lighten her hair and plump her breasts, but that was all. And in bed, she was not sweet, or innocent, or anywhere close to girlish. She moaned with gusto, straddled Cormac's thighs with confidence, and threw her long hair back and screamed his name when he--they?--came.

It wasn't Draco's best dip into a memory, least of all when desire began to stir deep in his stomach and coil _just so_. He shifted, crossing his legs and forcing unattractive thoughts into his mind: Dolores Umbridge, Caterina, Slughorn. He thought of the big massive blobs of worms at Hagrid's hut, the blank stare of Charity Burbage's dead eyes--Draco winced. Perhaps nothing _too_ unattractive.

But the memories came regardless, punctuated in turns by McLaggen's grunts and Ilsa's groans: the screams that filled Malfoy Manor whenever his aunt decided to visit the dungeons, his Marking. Draco grimaced, remembering the way the Dark Lord's wand burned into his skin--yet the pain seemed muted now, especially in light of the way his potions have been reacting to his skin. The way Amos squirmed and hissed--that blasted snake, now named and acknowledged thanks to Astoria. Ilsa tossed her hair back, and for a moment Draco thought he caught sight of dark brown curls instead of Ilsa's blonde.

He wondered what Astoria might look like, atop McLaggen like Ilsa was, with breasts just as full and skin even paler. He swallowed the lump in his throat and shifted in his seat to cover the one between his legs. McLaggen reached out to yank Ilsa's hair and Draco wondered what Astoria's hair might feel like between his fingers. Ilsa moaned, low and guttural--would Astoria sound the same?

" _Fuck_ ," Draco swore, because it was wrong, so very wrong, a married woman whose husband he was trying to find, for god's sake--Ilsa pressed herself up against McLaggen--but when Draco's gaze followed the curve of her back down to the swell of her arse as she ground against McLaggen and found himself aching for what Astoria might feel like against him, in the same way Ilsa arched towards McLaggen, he knew he was lost.

He wasn't a fucking _saint_.

He shrugged off his robes and undid his trousers--it took only a few quick strokes, timed with the climax of the pair on the bed and superimposed with the images in his head, but even after Ilsa had curled against Cormac, even after he'd cast three different cleaning charms on him and his clothes, he found himself burning with want all the same, and the image of Astoria, cheeks flushed and swollen lips parted, seared into his head.

* * *

"I don't understand," Miranda McLaggen said. "I'm flesh and blood--I am his _mother_!"

Draco winced. "I understand that, Miranda, but all the same--"

"I have the right to know of the investigation as it progresses!" she all but screeched, and not for the first time that afternoon, Draco wondered why his mother thought paying Miranda a visit would be a splendid idea. He'd turned down Narcissa's invitation to dinner the previous day, but Narcissa never took no for an answer--she'd shown up at his flat early that morning, announced they ought to spend more time together, and between lunch at Diagon Alley and heading back home she'd somehow maneuvered them into Miranda McLaggen's estate.

"Miranda, he's doing what he can. But he works with Magical Law Enforcement and they've got rules about what the immediate family can and cannot know," Astoria said, calming the elder Mrs. McLaggen with a sympathetic pat on the arm. She glanced at Draco and gave him a small smile, but it didn't help Draco any. He and his mother had caught Miranda with company, and it had turned out to be the last person he wanted to see so soon after--whatever happened at the Pensieve. He looked away, focusing instead on Miranda.

"I'm afraid we've found little conclusive evidence so far," he explained.

"How long will it take for you to make conclusions?" Miranda demanded. "It's been _weeks_ and my poor son--"

"We're following as many leads as we can," Draco said. "The MLE has opened a mailbox for any help the public can give and Auror Potter's making sure each owl we receive is given attention."

"He'll be dead before you even get a sniff of what happened!"

"I'm sorry, Miranda," was all Draco could say. "I really--I am doing my best, and we're going to find your son whatever it takes. But I should--" he stood up, pushing back his cold cup of tea and dusting the crumbs off his robes. "Thank you for your time, but I should be going."

"Draco!" Narcissa called out, grabbing him by the arm before he could Apparate home, just a few steps outside the manor's doors.

"I don't have anything that will help her, Mother," he hissed. "Her son is still missing and the people who might want him dead probably have good reasons."

" _Draco._ "

"What am I to tell her? That he engages in illegal trade, that he blackmails his business partners, that he cheats on his wife with a whore? Because that's all I've found, and believe me, if I knew it would give Miranda McLaggen any kind of comfort to know that, I would have told her long ago."

Narcissa stepped back with a gasp.

"Exactly," Draco said grimly.

"I didn't know," Narcissa whispered. "Oh, darling, I thought--"

"I know, Mum."

"I was only trying to help her; I thought--"

She thought Miranda might find her useful enough to keep around, that she might soon vouch for the Malfoys as acceptable company. "It's fine," he said, sighing. "You should go back in there and apologize for my behavior, tell them I'm under a lot of stress or something--"

"Draco? Narcissa?" Astoria closed the door behind her, a worried look on her face. "Is everything all right?"

"It's all fine, dear, thank you," Narcissa said, turning to give Astoria a reassuring smile. "My son--"

"Is stressed, and has forgotten his manners, that's all," Draco finished for her.

Astoria nodded. "My mother--Miranda's broken down into sobs, and my mother's not the best at providing comfort," she said. "To be honest, neither am I. Narcissa, I was wondering if you could help?"

"Of course," Narcissa said. She glanced at Draco, and when he nodded his consent, she walked back inside, leaving Draco and Astoria alone.

"I really should go," Draco said, as soon as Narcissa was gone.

"Is that true?" Astoria asked.

"What?"

"The things you told your mother." She bit her lip. "Blackmail? A whore?"

Draco shook his head. "Astoria, I am so--" Before he could stop himself, he'd crossed the distance between the two of them, gathering her into a firm hug and rubbing circles on her back. "I am so sorry."

"I'm not crying," she protested, voice muffled against his chest.

"Oh." Draco let go, catching Astoria's gaze as she raised her head.

"I always knew he wasn't perfect," she confessed. "But he was a good match and--"

"I know," he said. She'd not shed any tears, but her eyes shone with them, threatening to spill any moment.

"Have you ever--" she started to say, tearing her gaze from his and staring at the collar of his robes. "Have you ever done something because it was the right thing to do, the reasonable thing to do--"

"The proper thing everyone expected you to do?"

"Who hasn't, right?" she asked, looking back up at him with a soft laugh. "Have you ever--" she trailed off, and Draco could see the uncertainty in her eyes, the hesitation as she worried at her lower lip.

"Have I ever what?"

"Have you ever regretted it?"

Draco's words, if he had any, caught in his throat. "Sometimes," he admitted at last.

"Draco, I need to--" Astoria started to say, and maybe it wasn't right or reasonable or proper, but Draco stopped her mid-sentence, closing what little gap remained between them and pressing his lips to hers.

* * *

 **  
_iv. you'll make your real friends_   
**

 

"You can't keep showing up here and asking for favors without telling me what's going on!" Harry exclaimed, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "It's getting bloody annoying!"

"Not my intention at all, to get on your nerves," Draco said. He was rocking on his heels, veins pumping with three doses of caffeine and mind still full of Astoria--the way her fingers had curled against his robes, the silk of her hair in his hands, the sigh of her lips against his own. Her eyes on his, when the kiss ended. The sound of their breathing, as loud and deafening as the guilt-ridden silence between them. The rattling of his heart when the door nearly opened to the two of them still tangled in each other's arms. They'd jerked apart, filling the air with mumbled excuses and babbled niceties before Draco finally left.

" _Malfoy_!"

"What?"

Harry looked at him with exasperation. "Are you going to tell me what you need the Pensieve for or not?"

Draco nodded. She'd owled him that morning, asking for a moment to talk. He hadn't replied yet--it had been a mistake, he knew that well enough. He just didn't want to hear it from her so soon. "Yeah, I was just--I think I've found the woman with McLaggen."

"You think you have?"

And that was the unforgiving thing, wasn't it? That he was so close to finding McLaggen, so close to reuniting husband and wife. "I need to look at the Pensieve again, see if I can confirm a few things first."

"All right," Harry said, fishing out the key and tossing it towards Draco. "Try not to break anything while you're in there. And tell me what you find when you come out, you hear?"

* * *

There were a few limitations to memories as captured in runed stone basins, but Draco hoped he could get past a few of them. The last time he and Harry went through Tracey Davis' memory, they had time only to look for Blaise as he stormed out of the ballroom following his argument with McLaggen. Blaise had gone outside, and Draco knew now it was so he could meet Pansy in the gardens.

The problem, Draco realized, is that they had focused too much on one suspect when the entire ballroom had been full of them. Harry had asked some of his rookies to go over the memory again to see if they missed anything, but how would they know what to look for? How would they know if they'd found something worth noting?

Ilsa claimed she was on the clock the night McLaggen disappeared, and while Draco doubted she alone had abducted McLaggen--in Ilsa's memory he'd prattled on about his wealth and the things he would buy her, the places he would show her; he'd promised her the world, why wouldn't she demand it given the chance? A ransom was unnecessary if only McLaggen had access to his vault--it occurred to him that he could still have paid for her to attend his party. There had been so many guests that it would have been so easy to go unnoticed.

So when he stumbled into the middle of the party, brushing past the ghosts of the McLaggens' guests, he didn't bother to follow McLaggen or Blaise behind the draperies. He side-stepped the dancers, wove around drunkenly swaying wizards, and slipped to the edge of the ballroom, his eyes on everyone in attendance.

Champagne, of course, seemed to be the drink of choice among the witches. Penelope Clearwater went through hers like it was water, arms folded and eyes hard as Caleb Warrington ignored her for the adoration of his friends. Emma Dobbs reached for a glass when she tired of having her feet stepped on by Graham Pritchard. Katherine Bundy shared one with a young wizard that Draco often saw in the lifts whenever he visited the ministry. Sally-Anne Perks smiled at Rodrick Urquhart while discreetly dumping the contents of hers into a nearby planter whenever Urquhart wasn't looking.

Draco could not find Ilsa anywhere. He could not even see anyone who might be Ilsa. There was a rustling from behind the curtains and Draco tried to focus, knowing his time was nearly up. He scanned the crowd for faces familiar and new and saw Cormac stalking up the stairs that led to his study.

He sprinted up the stairs, hoping to get a better vantage point that way. But it was harder to see faces from that distance, and as he tried to descend he felt a tugging on his stomach, and he was sucked back into the tight closet that housed the Pensieve.

"Damn it," he muttered, reaching to touch the surface of the Pensieve.

Again.

Sarah Fawcett, making a toast to the birthday boy, who was across the room and could not hear a word of what she said.

Morag MacDougal, raising her own glass with an indulgent smile but sharing a knowing look with her companion.

The Vane sisters, complaining about the brand of champagne the McLaggens deigned to use and waxing poetic about their own trip to the northeast of France, where only the best champagne came from.

Susan Bones, looking a bit out of place and sipping hers every five seconds while she tried to act nonchalant.

Cormac McLaggen, stomping out in anger. Blaise Zabini, storming out the other way. The tug on his stomach, the ground dropping from beneath his feet.

Draco growled, losing his footing and crashing against the door.

 _Again._

Daphne Macmillan, refusing a glass from her husband as she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.

Katie Bell, handing Roger Davies hers before joining a group of her friends while they danced and laughed to the music.

Orla Quirke, admonishing her date for committing the grievous faux pas of adding ice to his wine while she sipped hers haughtily.

From the corner of his eye he saw a flash of blonde hair, a hand that reached out for a new glass from the refreshments table, and Draco all but leapt to his feet then and there, but it was just Tracey, fresh from the dance floor with Theodore, talking with a woman Draco didn't recognize.

Draco had never been a patient man to begin with, but he couldn't stem the frustration that was beginning to bubble to the surface. It was a pity he couldn't touch anything in the memories--he would have liked to slam his hand on something hard right about then. From where he stood, it was easy to see how he could have made that mistake. Tracey had the same length of golden hair that Ilsa did, though their eyes were different shades and Tracey was willowy where Ilsa was buxom. It seemed McLaggen had a type.

A tug, then a pulling sensation. Draco's rear collided against the floor, but this time, he hardly noticed. His eyes bore holes into the runes etched on the Pensieve, and he sat there for a long time, jolting back to his senses only when Harry knocked on the door.

"All right there, Malfoy? I heard a thud."

"Yeah," he said. "I'm fine."

"Done yet?"

"In a minute," Draco said, pulling himself up to his feet. He took his wand from his back pocket, whispering a spell as he tapped it against his temple. He drew out a long silvery strand, taking care to keep it attached to his wand before he spilled it into the basin. His own memory fell in tendrils into the pool, and when the image was clearer, he reached out to touch the surface.

* * *

It was one thing to enter another's memories, but Draco found it altogether eerie to look into his own. Harry swore by it, said Dumbledore created the Pensieve for that very purpose, but considering Dumbledore had knowingly asked for his own death, Draco was as willing to put his full faith in something just because Dumbledore thought it a good idea.

He grimaced as he fell through his own apparition, stalking down the hall from the McLaggens' foyer to meet Harry. His eyes were stone cold, fists curled into tight little balls. Draco frowned; Blaise must have really pissed him off. He touched his temple self-consciously--was his hairline really that high?

"You're late," Harry said, standing from where he'd been waiting for Draco.

"It was a long walk. Did you know Sharp and Diggle are wasting taxpayer galleons milling around with the guests outside?"

"I asked them to do that. I've got Peakes and Quinnville..."

Draco let the conversation fade into the background. He only had as long as the time his memory lasted for, and too much of it had been wasted on mindless chatter. He went ahead of himself and Harry, waiting until his memory extended just a bit more with every additional step they took until he reached the door to McLaggen's study.

It was, of course, closed to him until Harry opened it, and as it was, he was still gabbing with Draco. Did they really spend so much time milling about _talking_?

"And how does she know it's an abduction?" Draco asked.

"Tell me what you think of the study."

Draco slipped inside while his memory-self and Harry took in the scene. He'd drawn too far back in his memories, but while he had the scene to review he might as well look through the study again. He itched for time to move faster, though.

He walked toward the broken window, unmindful of the shards of glass that littered the floor; they would not cut through his skin. He looked out the window, and from the second floor he could see the glint of the moonlight off more pieces of glass on the ground below. Flight was the only answer, but they'd found no remnants of broomsticks around the window, inside or out. They must have used one of the newer models, a type that didn't shed its bristles. From where he leaned over, the dark ground looked like the sky, glittering with reflected light. It seemed like the entire window had fallen out.

"...since we're a floor up, that whoever took him Summoned a broom to escape," Harry was saying.

"Anybody's wand register Accio?"

Draco frowned. He studied the glass that remained on the windows, jagged edges that bent and cracked under the force of a broom, or whatever it was that had broken through. The edges slanted outward.

"Glacialum. Her drink needed ice."

Draco turned back to the room. If he were to trace how the struggle might have happened, he wouldn't know where to begin. The armchairs closest to the spilled drinks, perhaps? Those were almost in the center of the room--the bookshelves were by the windows, the desk at the other end. Three different corners of chaos, somehow all originating from the center? From the corner of his eye he saw himself heading towards the upturned desk while Harry, arms crossed, stayed where he stood.

"Just paperwork, odds and ends, she said." Harry scanned the room as he spoke. "He kept his most important documents in a Gringotts vault."

The study was a veritable war zone. The shelf had been shaken free of all the books it held. Draco stepped over the rug and knelt to examine the broken chair. It was mahogany, it looked like, a sturdy wood. If McLaggen had put up a fight, and it looked like he'd put up a hell of a fight, then perhaps he hadn't been as incapacitated when the abduction took place. Quick wandwork could even the playing field between a large man and a much smaller woman, but with McLaggen struggling, Draco was no longer sure that Ilsa could have done anything to subdue him.

"Nothing," Harry said behind him. "We can't do much with only conjecture at this point."

"Alright, Potter. Let's talk with Mrs. McLaggen."

Draco trailed behind himself as they descended the stairs, heading towards the kitchen, which bustled with frenetic activity.

"You're a guest, Tracey," Astoria said, giving Tracey a drink as she tried to shoo her away.

"Mrs. McLaggen?"

"You're Daphne's little sister."

Draco cringed. He'd been moronic, on second viewing.

"Well spotted, Mr. Malfoy."

He ignored the conversation and looked at the kitchen. He hadn't seen it when he first came in. There was Pinky, peering into the oven cautiously. She was the only elf Draco had ever met, he realized. He wondered whose elves the others were. There was an ancient one with scraggly white tufts of hair, hunched over the trays as he took his time laying out the hors d'oeuvres piece by careful piece. A younger elf in a bright pink pillowcase whose sleeves were capped with ribbons listened with rapt fascination to Tracey as she told her how to mix the batter. Tracey was beautiful in her dress and, with an apron half-tied on, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail and glamors beginning to fade, she looked completely at home. She stirred the mixture, chattering about the different ingredients as she poured measured cupfuls of them in.

"It won't take very long, Mrs. McLaggen."

"I'll take care of things here," Tracey piped up, retying her apron around her neck.

"All right," Astoria sighed, taking what was left of her red wine and gulping it down. "Let's head somewhere quiet, shall we?"

Draco almost didn't notice when he fell back against the door of the closet, brought back to reality once his memories ended. He felt for the pockets of his robes, fingers closing around a thin roll of parchment. He took it out, unfurling it and reading through the list once more.

He ignored Harry when he stumbled out of the closet a few minutes later, heading straight for the nearest Floo station.

"Oi, what's--"

"Later," was all he told him.

"Damn it, Malfoy!"

* * *

"McLaggen estate!" Draco had called into the Floo when he reached it, a burst of verdant green smoke engulfing him from the Magical Law Enforcement grates and depositing him in the McLaggen living room moments later. He landed on his feet, robes heavy with ashy residue, but he wasted no time dusting himself off.

"Draco! I've been trying to owl--"

" _You_!" he snarled, whipping his wand out. He'd been going over the memories in his head since, had been consumed by the images of walking through the study and heading to the kitchen, a constant loop playing in his mind's eye. He had found no need for a Pensieve for everything to scream as crystal clear as they did then. The complete and utter disarray of the room. The windows, broken from the inside. The rug, stained with blood and hiding more under it. His hand shook with anger, his blood curdled with rage. How could he have been so _stupid_?

Astoria shrank back. "What--what are you talking about?" she asked, stepping away.

"Don't move."

She halted. "Draco, please--"

"How long were you going to make a fool out of me?" he asked. She bit her lip, looked at him with pleading eyes. Draco's jaw tightened and his resolve steeled. His teeth ground against each other, fingernails digging into skin where his fist gripped his wand. He wouldn't let his thoughts turn sentimental. Not for her.

She shook her head. "I tried to tell you--"

" _Yesterday_?"

"I didn't know I could trust you," she said, wringing her hands. "Draco, please, I just--"

"You _knew_ ," Draco said. "You gave me the memory because you knew where it would lead me."

She said nothing. Her silence confessed enough for him.

"And you let me run around, fed me morsels like your damned dog!" Draco licked suddenly dry lips. "You must have had such a grand time, pulling your strings at will."

"That's not true," she insisted. "Draco, I'm sorry, but I didn't know I would--"

"Don't you dare say it."

"I tried to tell you, I swear!"

"When? When I found out? _If_ I did? It's a bit too late for that now, Astoria," Draco told her. "Fuck. Tell me something."

She looked up at him, her eyes shining with a plea for mercy.

"What did you do with the rug?"

"I didn't--"

"Where's the damned rug?"

"They burned it," she whispered. "Potter's men. They stayed until morning and said they'd help clean up. I told them to get rid of it."

Draco lowered his wand. "That is--" he murmured, shaking his head. "You are--"

"I had no choice!" she told him. "What would _you_ have done?"

Draco's eyes didn't flinch from her. "You know what I would have done," he said.

"You're right. But do you know, the funny thing is--" she said, her lips curling up into a smile that didn't quite match the sadness in her eyes. "I don't regret it at all."

* * *

He knew he should have headed straight for Harry, right back to Magical Law Enforcement. Harry had questions and Draco knew the answers to most of them. Astoria had let him leave, had simply looked at him with those damned sorry eyes of hers. No last-minute plea, no final confession. No bargaining, no bribery. She'd let him go.

That wasn't what had held him back, though. He was done doing as she wanted him to. But he needed to calm down, to think, so instead of going back--it was late, anyway, too late for Harry to still be in the ministry building--he headed back home. He opened a full bottle of Firewhiskey, swirling its amber liquid in a short, stout glass by his fireplace. There was nothing leisurely about his posture. He leaned forward, elbows resting just above his knees. His eyes were on the flames, but his gaze was far away.

He almost didn't notice when the fire died out, giving way to dimly glowing embers and crackling with the beginnings of a fire-call.

"Draco?"

He blinked, adjusting his eyes to the face in his fireplace. "Mum. It's late. What are you--"

She smiled. "Couldn't sleep," she admitted. "I had a thought you might still be up. You always work so hard. I'm not interrupting, am I?"

"I'm not working," Draco told her, raising his glass to show her.

She laughed. "You are truly my son," she murmured. "Ogden's?"

"1983."

"Good year." She snuffed the flames from her end, and came in through the Floo not five minutes later. "I had a bottle of red," she told him. "But I have half a mind for something stronger."

"Nightcap?" Draco Summoned a glass from his kitchen cupboards, adding ice to it before he handed it to his mother.

"Thank you, dear," she said, pouring herself a healthy dose from Draco's bottle while he rekindled the flames. "Any special occasion?"

"Not really."

"Does this have anything to do with work?" When Draco didn't answer, Narcissa smiled. "I won't ask."

"Why couldn't you sleep?"

"Insomnia comes with age, Draco," she said, though Draco didn't think that was a direct answer to his question.

"And father?"

"Snoring in the bedroom." She winked at him. "He sleeps better than I do."

"He fantasizes more than you as well," Draco countered. "It's easy to sleep when you're wrapped up in your own world."

"Now, love--"

She was cut off by the fluttering of a barn owl that came flapping through an open window. It hooted with its arrival, dropping a note onto Draco's lap. His name was scrawled on the back, in the writing Draco recognized was Astoria's. He stared at it for a moment before Banishing it to his desk.

"There are treats on the mantel," he told the owl, who took his payment before flying away. To his mother, who gave him a curious look, he shook his head. "It was nothing."

"It looked important."

"It can wait until tomorrow."

"I see."

"How do you stand it?" Draco asked, steering the conversation away. "How can you listen to him prattle on about becoming Minister?"

"He is your father," Narcissa told him. "He is my husband. We are Malfoys. We will always be Malfoys. If we don't stand by our own, then who will?"

Draco's gaze flickered to his mother's. Narcissa had always been dignified even in the face of utter humiliation, and now, wrapped in robes that covered her nightgown, her silvering hair cascading in curls against her shoulders, freed from the tight bun she favored, she looked no more proud than she did whenever she stepped outside Malfoy Manor's walls and faced the world. Her eyes blurred around the edges, sight failing with age though she refused to wear glasses, but her gaze was sharp on his. They never missed anything, though Draco could not decide whether that was due to her being a Black, a Malfoy, a mother, or a wife. It was, quite possibly, a combination of all four.

He was the first to look away.

"Draco."

"Do you hate him?" Draco asked. "Did you ever wish--"

"Your father is trapped by dreams of grandeur because he hasn't stopped wishing," Narcissa said. She smiled at her son. "Why would I do the same?"

"You'd both drive me mad."

She laughed. "Can't have that now, can we?"

Draco shook his head in response, both of them falling into a comfortable silence. The fire was beginning to die, the chill of the air starting to creep into the warmth of his sitting room. Narcissa drew her robes closer around her shoulders. The ice had melted into her whiskey, diluting the liquid into a lighter amber. The faint traces of a smile remained on her face, and without the glamors she put on Draco could see the lines of time aging her beyond her fifty years. He glanced at his drink--it was rich and full-bodied, the way he preferred his liquor, but he'd lost his appetite for the night.

"You can stay in the guest room if you like," he said. "I'll head back with you by Floo tomorrow morning."

"Will you really?" He hadn't stepped into the Malfoy Manor in a while. Narcissa stood, smiling. "I'll make the Floo back, no need to put me up for the night. But I'll see you tomorrow for breakfast?"

"Yes, mum."

"I'll make poached eggs and sausages," she said. "Not quite how Dobby used to make them but close to it; at least, I hope so. And coffee--I have a bag of arabica beans, the foulest I've ever had the displeasure to taste, but you like them, don't you?"

Draco laughed. "You must have prepared it incorrectly," he said. "I'll brew us a decent batch if you promise to make the eggs the way I like them."

She agreed, kissing him on the cheek ("When did you get taller than your father?") to bid him good night.

Rest came easier than expected when Draco went to bed, long after his mother had gone. He was asleep almost as soon as his weary head hit the pillow, and when he dreamt, it was of fresh coffee and poached eggs and toast and home.

* * *

When he woke, it was to find more owls delivered to him overnight, a small pile of envelopes gathering on his kitchen table and a near-empty saucer of treats on his mantel. Draco gave them a cursory look after he stepped out of the shower. Four from Harry, one more from Astoria, although what it lacked in quantity it made up for in quality. It was thick, sure to have more than two dozen inches of parchment inside, and heavy as well.

Draco set them all back down, intent on ignoring them as he scrubbed the water from his hair. He strolled back to the bathroom, towel slung around his waist. He wanted to have breakfast first. Harry Potter can wait. Astoria can--well, she can go to hell.

He'd never been more determined to make breakfast as casual an affair as he did when he finally made it to Malfoy Manor. Narcissa set the table in the garden--insisted on it, his father whispered to him as they watched Narcissa fuss with the plate settings and cutlery, waving off their offers to help.

"Are we ever going to eat?" Lucius asked.

"Quiet, you," Narcissa muttered, wiping her hands on a towelette before she gave Draco a bright smile. "You weren't supposed to see that; I was expecting you at seven, not six-thirty! We don't normally have breakfast this early."

"Mum, I'm not a guest," Draco said, grabbing his usual chair and plopping down upon it. "No need to use the nice china on me."

"We always use the nice china," Narcissa sniffed.

Draco held his tongue, instead Summoning the pot of coffee he'd been brewing from the kitchen. "May I present: real coffee," he said with all the formality of royalty.

Lucius made a face. Narcissa slapped him lightly on the wrist and poured them both a cup, quieting his protests with a stern look.

There was a feast on the table, and Draco filled his plate with a little bit of each dish. Breakfast in his flat meant burnt toast and butter, and his mouth watered as he took his fill of eggs, croissants, at least three different kinds of marmalade for his breakfast rolls--

"Goodness, son, has your house elf been starving you?" Lucius asked.

Draco paused mid-bite, catching the look Narcissa gave him. "Just hungry, father," he said. "My elf doesn't make food quite as good as yours."

Lucius seemed satisfied with his response. He settled in his seat, conversation shifted to the mundane, and for a moment, Draco almost believed it was just another morning at the manor.

An owl arrived carrying the day's paper and, between delicate bites of her blueberry muffin, Narcissa deposited a knut in the pouch tied to its foot.

"Are you still reading that rubbish?" Draco asked through a mouthful of toast.

"Manners, dear," Narcissa told him, unrolling the paper. "I like being kept up to date, even if--"

Draco swallowed his food before speaking again. "Even if what?" he asked, frowning when he saw the look of pure confusion on Narcissa's face. "Mother?"

"Draco," she said, hesitating before she turned to face him. "I know we've agreed not to speak of work, but I think you might want to see this."

"See what?"

She handed him The Daily Prophet.

He blinked. He read the headline, over and over again, but it made no less sense than it did upon first reading: **_MCLAGGEN ALIVE? MISSING MINISTRY OFFICIAL SIGHTED IN DIAGON ALLEY._**

* * *

There were more owls from Harry when he returned to his flat, only a few minutes after he first saw The Daily Prophet and excused himself from breakfast. Narcissa nodded her understanding, and even Lucius did not seem to mind that he barely said goodbye before he hurried to the Floo.

One of the owls, he realized, was in fact a howler. It had been hopping up and down the pile, burning red with every second it remained ignored. Draco winced, reaching for it and tearing it open.

" _WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?_ " Harry's voice, shriller and two octaves higher than normal, screamed. " _I'VE BEEN TRYING TO GET HOLD OF YOU SINCE LAST NIGHT!_ "

He Transfigured ear plugs out of two sugar cubes from his pantry, tucked them in, and tried his best to leaf through the other owls with Harry's muffled ranting in the background.

" _...NO IDEA WHAT'S GOING..._ "

Harry's owls contained little more than demands for answers. The MLE had heard of the Prophet article off a tip from someone who worked the presses, and Harry had sent men off to investigate. The sighting, according to the article, occurred late yesterday afternoon in downtown Diagon Alley. McLaggen had been wearing a cloak and a large hat that obscured most of his features, and a witness thought they saw him leaving Gringotts just as it closed. Multiple requests for comments to the goblins that ran the bank remained unanswered, the article claimed.

" _...SHACKLEBOLT WANTS TO KNOW..._ "

Smith, who of course had written the article, then went on to wonder what McLaggen could have been doing. The actual news filled only the first two paragraphs, but Smith succeeded in cramming the next three and a half columns of newspaper space with pure speculation.

" _...NEED YOU HERE RIGHT NOW..._ "

Draco chucked the paper in the bin and scanned through the rest of Harry's owls to see if they'd found anything more useful. One of the later owls yielded something--an MLE officer had gotten hold of the Gringotts' president, who confirmed that a withdrawal had been made from one of the McLaggen vaults. As was typical for goblins, however, they'd refused to say whether it was Cormac McLaggen's personal vault or not, how much or what had been taken out, and if it had indeed been Cormac McLaggen who withdrew the money, saying only that their employees followed protocol to the letter and that nothing was amiss with their vaults.

" _...FUCKING HELL, MALFOY..._ "

He slipped that owl inside his pocket. He threw the rest away, his eyes glancing past the last envelope that lay on his table. He hesitated, but curiosity won out in the end. He picked it up, sliding his index finger beneath the flap and running it down the envelope's length to open it.

Reluctantly, he read.

" _...WHERE **ARE** YOU?_ "

He was still reading, long after Harry's outburst had ended. He folded the letter, tucked it back into the envelope, and pocketed that as well. Someone cleared their throat behind him and he jumped, wand drawn.

"No, wait! I knocked, but I think you were--" She gestured toward his earplugs. "The door was open, so I let myself in."

Draco frowned. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to confess."

* * *

"Where _were_ you?" Harry asked, not for the first time that day, when Draco arrived at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Officers went over papers and talked in hushed whispers, but Draco did not mistake the hum of activity for any real action: they knew nothing at all, but hoped to look busy enough that Harry would not notice.

"I had my suspicions, but there were a few things I had to know for sure first," he said. The officers were still doing busywork, but their movements were slower now, more careful. They leaned closer, straining to hear his conversation with Harry. "Can we talk in private?"

Harry looked as though he wanted to protest, but instead he shook his head and sighed. "As you wish," he mumbled in resignation, signaling for Draco to follow him into his office. "This had better be good," he said as soon as the door shut behind them. He crossed his arms across his chest and fixed a glare on Draco. "You took your sweet time getting here."

"I placed a call to a goblin I know in Gringotts. Alrik. Tell him I sent you," Draco said, placing Alrik's business card on Harry's desk. "Asked about the McLaggens' shared vault, and if anything had been withdrawn from it at all. Your men have no sense when it comes to working with the goblins, you realize that?"

"No need to be so smug, Malfoy," Harry said, though he pocketed the card. "What did you find?"

"The shared vault was untouched. The withdrawal had been made from McLaggen's personal vault. That _was_ McLaggen."

"Doesn't tell us much, though, does it?" Harry asked. "All it takes is a polyjuice potion and Confundus--"

"Washed away by Thief's Downfall, no doubt," Draco pointed out. "The goblins say nothing's amiss, either, and as far as we can tell, no dragon has gotten loose from the Gringotts dungeons."

"All right," Harry conceded. "So let's say that's McLaggen. What the bloody hell is going on, then?"

Draco sighed. "Didn't you wonder why we found the study like that?" he asked, taking one of the seats in front of Harry's desk. "The mess they'd made?"

Harry nodded, sinking into his own seat with a sigh. "Robards warned me about those," he said, referring to his predecessor. "Called it an orgy of evidence."

"Exactly. I knew something was up but I wasn't sure what it was."

"And did you find out?"

"Think about it, Harry. No one could find a sign of a broom anywhere at all, could they?"

"We combed the grounds--"

"The windows were shattered from the _inside_ ," Draco said. "Too much glass outside, less in the room. The furniture--how long was the struggle, how wild, that it would take McLaggen and his abductor wrestling through the entire room and knocking everything down before McLaggen could be subdued?"

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying it was a set-up, Harry. It had been a set-up from the very beginning."

"But who? And why?"

"I didn't know right away. I thought Zabini did it. McLaggen had been using his company to make a lot of extra galleons on the side. But he never deposited them in his account with his wife. He kept them in his other vault, where only he could take the money whenever he needed it."

Harry frowned. "You're saying--"

"There was another woman. Nineteen years old, a server in some private lounge that McLaggen was a member of. Her name was Ilsa." Draco shook his head. "She told me they were in love, and I thought--well, what would you have thought if you were talking to a nineteen-year-old nobody who was carrying on an affair with a ministry official?"

Harry shrugged. "He was leading her on."

"I made a call to The Black Orchid this morning, and they haven't heard from her in days," Draco said. "She didn't send in a note or anything. Just up and disappeared."

Draco watched the way Harry's brow furrowed in thought.

"I got her memory last week," Draco continued. "It's in the Pensieve shelf. Top-right corner, labeled with the date and case number, if you wanted to look. I should warn you it isn't the most, ah, appropriate of memories to examine during work hours, but you should listen to McLaggen talk afterward. I thought he was just filling her head with pretty lies, but he'd been making promises, and he'd intended to keep them all."

"So he ran off with a waitress he met at a lounge?" Harry asked. "He faked his own abduction for a girl?"

Draco shook his head. "Crazy, isn't it?" he asked. "But it didn't click in my head until I saw the rug. How could there be so much blood for a struggle? And how would the blood have made it _under_ the rug?"

Harry's jaw dropped. "Bloody hell--"

"They must have been planning it long before the party," Draco concluded. "They must have been taking some of his blood to spread around that night. Probably spilled too much at first, then decided to cover it up with the rug."

"Merlin."

"That he had a personal vault was key too. I don't think he signed a pre-nuptial agreement with his wife. If he'd divorced her, she would have dragged him through court for everything he owned. If he'd faked death, all of his assets would have turned over to her, and he'd have no way of getting all the money he'd been squirreling away for Ilsa. A disappearance, though, that was different. How long does a person have to be missing before they're considered dead?"

Harry sank back in his seat, scratching his head in wonder. "Merlin's balls."

"Yeah."

"Fuck, we're gonna have to tell his wife, aren't we."

"She knows, Harry."

" _What?_ "

Draco nodded grimly. "She's suspected all along." His fist clenched. "Theodore Nott was a friend of hers; she must have known her husband had been seeing a girl who worked for Nott. Did you ever wonder why the glass of champagne was crushed to fine pieces? She tried to hide it to cover the fact that McLaggen had been in there with Ilsa. And didn't she ask you to get rid of the rug? Had your men looked closer they would have started to suspect something wrong too."

"But why would she--"

"Pride," was Draco's answer. "She'd rather lose her husband to an unidentified abductor instead of another woman. She strung us along just because she couldn't face the truth."

Harry frowned. "Does she know where McLaggen is?"

"I don't think she does," Draco said. "But they are very likely running far, far away, where they won't have to worry about the wrath of a woman scorned."

Harry only nodded, saying nothing for a good long while. "Well," he said at last. "Some case, huh?"

"Can't say I've seen any as twisted," Draco said dryly.

Harry snorted. "Shacklebolt'll love this," he muttered.

"I think I'll leave you to that," Draco told him.

"Thanks, Malfoy," Harry sighed, leaning out the door as he escorted Draco out. "Peakes! Get me Shacklebolt right away!"

"Anytime," Draco said, but he doubted Harry heard him.

* * *

The sun was high, bright on a cloudless sky. It didn't dim beneath the translucent roof of a small gazebo. The air was still and calm, filled with the earthy smell of a fresh pot of coffee and the sweetness of berries baked in bread.

"Was this part of the plan too?" Draco asked. He dug for the galleon, heavy in his pocket, which had been wrapped along with the owl she sent him. If he deigned to speak to her, the letter had said, the galleon will take him to her at noon exactly. He flipped it toward her, and she caught it, slender fingers curling around its golden edges.

Astoria sighed. "No. You stopped being part of anything since--"

"But I was, wasn't I?"

She nodded, her gaze averted from his. "I needed to buy us time, at first, to help us figure out what to do," she admitted. "It happened so fast. I didn't have time to think."

"So I hear. At least, that's what Tracey told me."

Astoria's eyes flew to his. "She went to you? I told her to leave right away. We didn't know what you would do."

"She said that too." Draco frowned. "You honestly didn't send her?" He'd wondered, when Tracey showed up at his flat that morning, if that had been another one of Astoria's machinations.

She shook her head. "I would never have risked it, not after the last time we spoke."

"She could have told the MLE that she was just defending herself." It had been an accident, Tracey confessed. She'd stumbled into McLaggen's study, where he'd come onto her and refused to take no for an answer.

"They'd have asked for her memory--Harry Potter relies on his Pensieve too much, and then they'd have heard everything," she said. "He accused her of breaking the Statute of Secrecy, and all those claims get investigated."

"That was nothing, though," Draco said, thinking back to the casual way Tracey had Summoned her cupcake from the counter when he visited. "She was just--nobody saw when she cast that spell."

Astoria picked up one of the small cakes. "Do you remember the cupcake you had at the bakery?"

"Chocolate, yeah."

"Chocolate Cheer. Do you remember how it made you feel after?"

"Sure. It was really good, I thought. I felt--"

"Cheerful?"

Draco licked his lips. "She didn't--"

"Muggles don't notice. They never notice anything. She uses harmless potions in her cupcakes, anything first years might make. Happy ones. It doesn't harm anyone, but what would the Wizengamot say if they found out?"

They would have imprisoned her, no questions asked. The law was blunt and undiscerning that way.

"Exactly. There isn't much room for leniency when it comes to the Wizengamot," she said, taking his silence for understanding. "I walked in on them. I watched as she drove the knife into his stomach. He'd gotten so close, she said. She had only her wand to Transfigure." Her voice was even, though her fingers were restless on her lap and her face creased in a frown as she recounted the events of the night.

Draco had already heard it from Tracey. She'd only wanted to get McLaggen off her, but the sight of his blood had frozen her in place, and when she came to her senses, McLaggen was dead and Astoria had started to cover everything up. They'd turned the study upside-down and broken the windows themselves, and then they went downstairs. Astoria had gone back up to discover the scene, and it was that snippet of her memory that she gave the MLE. The memory that Tracey had given was sometime earlier in the night, before she went upstairs in search of quiet and found Cormac McLaggen instead. They'd given Draco the memory, hoping that by volunteering it he'd overlook her, and he had.

"And then she used Tergeo," he said. "It was the last spell she cast with her wand. She'd spilled some of the blood on her dress and had to take out the stain."

"She told Harry she'd spilled some wine on herself."

"And the rug," he added. "I remember looking at the rug and thinking, why would it have blood beneath it? Then I saw it again, and I thought, why would a rug be bleeding?"

"There hadn't been any time to move him. I'd always been good at Transfiguration, so I thought--"

"Hidden in plain sight."

"Yes."

"You used his wand to hide his own body. I couldn't figure out why you had to make ice--it certainly wasn't for the wine--until The Daily Prophet article this morning."

"I thought we might need a piece of him, but I didn't know what for just yet."

"Did Theodore teach you that trick? That's how they store samples in The Black Orchid. How long have you known about Ilsa?"

"All along," she admitted. "I lent Theodore some money when he first started."

"Did you borrow his employees too? Who went to Gringotts yesterday?"

She hesitated. "Theodore."

"He'd do anything for Tracey, wouldn't he."

"He'd do anything for his friends."

"How did he get past the goblins?"

"Did you ever find out how Cormac made his money?"

"No. What does that have to do with--"

"Half-breeds," she said. "He sold half-breed parts as potions ingredients. Half-goblin blood was his biggest seller. Blaise found out--Cormac had been using his company to smuggle them in. When the goblins heard, they didn't really mind what was taken out of Cormac's vault anymore, or who took it out."

"What did you do with the money?"

"It's all Ilsa's now," Astoria said, her gaze on the food on her plate. "He promised her, after all. Are we done here?"

"What?"

"I don't see anybody here to arrest me, but you've got enough for a confession now, don't you?" she asked, looking up at him. "You won't find Tracey, though. Theodore's taken her to hide for a while, until this dies down."

"Why help her?"

"Why shouldn't I? She's like a sister to me," Astoria said. "She'd have done the same if our roles had been reversed. I'm guilty of a lesser crime and I have money for counsel."

"You don't need to worry about the MLE, at any rate," Draco told her. "They're not going to waste resources looking for a runaway official and his mistress. If they ever discover the whole truth, it won't be from me."

Astoria studied him. "Why are you doing this?"

It was Draco's turn to avert his gaze. Until Tracey came by that morning, he'd been ready to report everything to Harry. But she was willing to turn herself in if it meant Astoria would be absolved of any involvement, and that had given him pause. "It wouldn't have been a fair trial," he said. "Tracey would have been painted the villain and McLaggen the victim long before she even reached the Wizengamot."

"Thank you," Astoria said, but when she reached out to touch his wrist he drew away.

"So what are you going to do now?" he asked again, his tone abrupt, more brusque than he felt.

He thought he saw her lip tremble, but it must have been his imagination. She folded her hands on her lap, curling her lips up to a bright smile. When she spoke, her words rang loud, filling the hollow quiet that had settled between them. "I imagine the news will hit The Daily Prophet by tomorrow morning," she said. "And Zacharias Smith or Rita Skeeter, whoever's got faster legs and a keener sense for blood, will be banging on my door for a statement. I'll ignore them, perhaps spend a few months abroad to get this behind me, and in a year's time nobody will even remember who Cormac McLaggen's wife was."

He nodded. His coffee, when he picked it up, had gone cold. The bread crumbled between his fingers, and the clanging of the cutlery raked down his spine. "I should go," he said, giving her the courtesy of a curt nod before he stood to leave.

"Draco?"

"Yes?"

"For what it's worth," she said, and this time her lower lip did tremble, "I wish things had gone differently."

Draco allowed himself a rueful smile. "I'm sorry too," he said, before he Apparated away.

* * *

"Draco, darling, if you're going to hang about us like a dreadful shadow, at least make yourself useful and try to glower a little," Narcissa scolded, smoothing back Draco's hair and patting his cheek lovingly. "You're doing well enough scaring the children but the bigger men don't seem intimidated at all by your presence."

Beside her, Lucius laughed. He stroked the back of her hand. "Narcissa, leave our son alone."

"He ought to have left us alone!" Narcissa murmured with a laugh, though it was not soft enough that Draco could not hear. "How is this meant to be a romantic stroll through Venice if he skulks about behind us like that?"

"You didn't tell me you wanted to be alone," Draco muttered, burying his pockets deep in his own robes and turning the other direction. "Don't worry; I'll leave you be now."

"Oh, now look what you've done," Lucius told Narcissa, who only whispered something in his ear that made him chuckle.

Draco rolled his eyes. The holiday had been Narcissa's idea to begin with, and he'd gotten roped into it only because Lucius mentioned it at breakfast. He hadn't wanted to go, but his parents had insisted. A good change of pace, his mother had said, especially since he hadn't taken on any cases in a while.

'A while' had been six months, and he hadn't taken on any cases because he'd been refusing them. It was potions work that took up his time now--just the other day he sent Apothicaire de Zabini a potion that covered up skin blemishes. A somewhat fortuitous side effect of his attempts at getting rid of Amos, the potion lasted longer than glamors, and was something even squibs could use. The form owl he received told him to expect a response within the month, so he owled Blaise to let him know he'd also sent the sample to a rival apothecary.

Venice was a beautiful place, and each second that he stayed made it even clearer that it had been a mistake to make the trip. He spotted his parents up ahead, heard their distant laughter as they got onto a rocking gondola. The moonlight scattered on the rippling surface of the water.

Dear Merlin, he thought, he really shouldn't have come.

He didn't actually think Merlin would answer his prayers then and there, but who was he to ask questions when a hawk descended from the star-cloaked skies, talons digging into an envelope addressed to him?

Blaise's note was terse and to the point, but they made Draco smile. He shook out the small key that came with the letter, and when it tugged him away, he found himself wondering only where the Portkey might take him.

The interiors looked very similar to the potions laboratory that Draco had visited, but nothing about the plain white walls and cramped desk told him much else.

"You better have an international Portkey to return me to Italy," Draco said. "I'm not sure I can explain how I returned to the country without going through the appropriate registries."

"We could still be in Italy," Blaise drawled. He was resting against the table--lounging, since Blaise never does anything without turning it into some sort of affected pose--resisting the tug of a smile on the corner of his lips.

"Then your watch is an hour behind."

"You didn't really send the potion to Slug and Jiggers," Blaise said. "I had my men check."

"And yet here I am, summoned anyway."

"The potion isn't fit for an apothecary."

"You sell Pepper-ups and Skele-Gro potions by the thousands."

"I didn't say I wouldn't consider taking your potion," Blaise said. "It does have more of a Sleekeazy's feel to it, and one of our board members wants us to start competing in that market. If you could create a line of potions similar to the one you sent us--we'll need to brand it, too, on top of testing--then we could be on to something."

"You want me to make more?"

"We'll only take it on if you make more. Maybe a direct competitor to the hair potion, maybe something to--ah--" Blaise tapped the edge of his hairline, eyes fixed on Draco's-- "help with that, too."

"You're a right arse--"

A third voice cut him off. "Now, Blaise, try to remember your manners, will you? We're trying to court the man, not drive him to the enemy."

Blaise laughed, signaling the newcomer to enter the room. "You _are_ running the new division, so for this, I suppose I'll defer to your judgment."

"As you should," she murmured.

"Draco, I'm sure you know--"

"No, actually," she said, ignoring the look Blaise gave her, and when she turned to face Draco her smile was shy. "I don't believe we've met."

"We haven't," Draco said. He quirked an eyebrow at her, taking her proffered hand and shaking it. "Draco Malfoy."

She grinned. "Astoria Greengrass. Pleasure to meet you."

"Likewise."

  
_  
**the beginning**   
_   



End file.
